#its complicated and yet so simple | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bueckets · 2 months ago

Text

The Prophecy | Part 2

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two (you're here) | Three

Description: A weekend in Connecticut changes everything. On the court, you and Paige Bueckers are rivals, a clash of titans in a game where perfection is the only currency. Off the court, it’s different. Walls come down, secrets spill, and for a fleeting moment, hearts connect in ways you never thought possible.

But nothing perfect lasts.

WC: 7.9k

Authors Notes: heavy angst, heavy smut, heavy romance n fluff...... somehow all in one. i'm sorry have not proof read as usual

You wake up slowly, sunlight creeping through unfamiliar curtains. For a moment, disorientation fogs your mind. Then it clicks: Paige's room. Paige's bed. Paige’s sweatshirt draped over your shoulders, soft and impossibly warm. It smells like her—clean and fresh, a little bit like lavender, a little bit like something uniquely Paige.

Your eyes drift to the floor, and there she is, stretched out on her makeshift bed. Her face is half-buried in her pillow, hair spilled in golden waves, catching the light in a way that makes it hard to look away. There’s something unguarded about her, something soft and peaceful that tugs at a place deep in your chest.

She stirs, eyes fluttering open, and for a moment, they’re hazy, unfocused. Then they land on you. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and suddenly it feels like the morning itself is holding its breath.

“Hi,” she whispers, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Hi,” you whisper back, your own voice quieter than you expect.

Her gaze flickers to the sweatshirt, oversized and worn, hanging loosely on you. “You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“You gave it to me,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm.

"Looks better on you."

Her smile grows a little, and it’s devastating—soft and genuine, with just the faintest edge of teasing. Your heart stumbles, unsure whether to run away or fall forward.

She pushes herself upright, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. Her hair is a mess, and there’s a crease from the pillow on her cheek, and yet she still manages to make the simple act of waking up feel like poetry.

“I should, um, ” You start to move, unsure of where to go, just knowing the air between you feels suddenly electric.

"Wait," she says softly. You freeze, half-sitting.

Paige hesitates, like she’s searching for the right words, then sits on the edge of the bed. Her knee brushes yours lightly, and it sends a ripple of awareness through you. She’s close—so close you can see the faint freckles across her nose, the tiny scar just above her eyebrow, the way her eyes hold flecks of amber that catch the light.

“I just, ” She starts, then falters, her gaze dropping for a moment. When she looks back up, it lingers on your lips, just briefly, just enough to make your breath catch.

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to kiss me?"

Her eyes widen slightly, and her breath hitches. “I was thinking about it.”

You lean forward just a fraction, feeling your pulse quicken. “Just thinking?”

“Well,” her voice drops to a near whisper, “I’m also thinking about how complicated this could get.”

Your heart pounds. “What else?”

“I’m thinking,” she leans in the tiniest bit closer, her lips nearly brushing yours, “about how none of that feels as important as this does right now.”

The tension between you is thick enough to drown in, and the world outside fades until it’s just her—the warmth of her body so close to yours, the hitch in her breathing, the slight tremble of her hand as she lets it rest near yours.

“So?” you murmur, your voice barely audible.

“So,” she says, her lips curving faintly, “I’m thinking I really want to kiss you.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing her wrist, and feel the quick, fluttering rhythm of her pulse. “Then why haven’t you?”

Her smile turns soft, almost nervous. “Because once I do, everything changes.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, leaning just close enough to feel her breath, “it already has.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her, maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s both of you at once. But suddenly her lips are on yours, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

The kiss is tentative at first, gentle and searching, like you’re both testing the waters of something impossibly fragile. Then her hand comes up to cup your face, her thumb brushing your cheek, and you melt into the touch, letting the moment deepen.

She sighs softly against your lips, a sound so intimate it makes your chest ache. Your hands slide into her hair, tangling in the soft strands, and she responds by kissing you harder, deeper.

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. She tastes like hope and possibility and a thousand stolen glances finally realized. Your heartbeat feels like it’s trying to escape your chest, your breath comes faster, and all you can think is more, more, more.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against yours, her eyes still closed, and you feel the faintest smile ghost across her lips.

“Wow,” she whispers, her voice still shaky.

"Yeah," you manage, equally breathless.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, and the way she looks at you—soft, hopeful, like you’re something worth believing in—makes your heart stumble all over again.

“You okay?” she asks, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek.

You laugh quietly, still trying to catch your breath. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Yeah?” Her smile widens, playful now. “How long is a while?”

You hesitate, then grin sheepishly. “Remember that coffee story you posted?”

She groans, burying her face against your shoulder. “That long?”

“Maybe longer.”

You feel her smile against your skin, and she lifts her head to look at you again, her eyes sparkling. “So what you’re saying is I affect your perfect shot percentage?”

“Shut up.”

She laughs, and it’s warm and familiar, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing her again.

When you finally pull back, she’s grinning, looking thoroughly disheveled in the best way.

“Still think you affect my game?” you tease, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing lightly against the collar of her sweatshirt you’re wearing. “Guess we’ll find out in March."

And there it is—the future neither of you wants to think about right now. But before you can spiral, she's kissing you again, soft and sure, like a promise.

"But that's not today," she whispers against your lips.

"No," you agree, pulling her closer. "It's not."

Outside, the campus is waking up. Soon you'll have to deal with reality—practice, teammates, the complicated dance of being rivals and whatever this is becoming. But right now, in the soft morning light of her room, with her lips on yours and her hands in your hair, there's only this:

The way she sighs your name.

The flutter of her pulse under your fingertips.

The feeling that maybe, just maybe, some things are worth the risk.

You kiss her again, and again, each one feeling like a new discovery. Like solving an equation you didn't know needed solving. Like hitting a shot you were always meant to make.

Perfect.

You meant to head back to your hotel after breakfast. Really. But then Paige asked if you wanted to see UConn's practice facility ("Just to check out the competition"), and suddenly you're walking into the most storied gym in women's basketball, her fingers brushing yours every few steps.

The team's already warming up when you enter. The balls stop bouncing one by one as players notice you. Even in practice gear—borrowed from Paige, which is definitely not making you feel things—you command attention.

"Well," a familiar voice echoes through the gym. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

Geno Auriemma. The legend himself.

"Coach," you nod respectfully.

He looks you up and down, that famous half-smile playing at his lips. "You know, when we tried to recruit you, I told your parents you'd look good in UConn blue."

"Still trying to recruit me, Coach?"

"Can you blame me?" He gestures to the banners overhead. “Though, word is you're making quite a legacy at Harvard."

You catch Paige trying not to smile. "Just trying to keep up with your squad, sir."

"Show us," he says suddenly. "What all the fuss is about."

The gym goes silent. Even the assistants stop what they're doing.

"Coach," Paige starts, but you're already grabbing a ball.

"Any particular spot?" you ask innocently.

Geno's eyes glint. "Surprise me."

You bounce the ball once, twice. The rhythm settles into your bones like it always does. The physics of it all unfolds in your mind—force vectors, arc trajectories, air resistance.

Then you close your eyes.

The gasps echo through the gym before the ball even hits the net. Perfect swish from half-court.

"Again," Geno says quietly.

You hit from the corner. From the logo. Behind the backboard. Each shot more impossible than the last, each one pure silk. The team's not even pretending to practice anymore, just watching in awe.

"One more," Geno calls out. “Make it interesting.” He calls you by your last name.

You lock eyes with Paige, and something passes between you. A challenge. A promise.

"Anyone want to play defense?" you ask.

The gym erupts. Five players step up immediately—all starters except Paige, who's watching you with something that makes your skin buzz.

"Five on one?" Geno raises an eyebrow. "Bold."

You just smile.

What happens next will probably end up on Twitter within the hour. You move like water through their defense, each dribble calculated, each step precise. A behind-the-back that sends Caroline spinning. A crossover that nearly breaks Tessa's ankles. By the time you rise up for the shot, the defense is scattered like bowling pins.

Nothing but net.

The gym explodes. Players are screaming, filming, shaking their heads in disbelief. But you only register Paige's expression—proud and hungry all at once.

"Happy?" you ask Geno.

He's trying not to look impressed. Failing. "You sure I can't convince you to transfer?"

"Sorry, Coach. My heart's already spoken for." Your eyes flick to Paige for a fraction of a second. "Harvard's home."

The practice continues, and somehow you get roped into running drills with them. It's surreal—playing alongside these girls instead of against them. Especially Paige. The way you move together on court, like you can read each other's minds, has even Geno shaking his head.

"God really did create a perfect basketball player," you hear him mutter after you and Paige execute a no-look give-and-go that ends in a reverse layup.

After practice, you're all sprawled on the court, exhausted but buzzing. Your head's in Paige's lap—friendly enough to seem casual, intimate enough to make your heart race. The team's arguing about dinner plans when your phone buzzes.

"Rocket," Sierra's text reads, "stop breaking ankles at UConn and call me. I need details 👀"

Paige reads it over your shoulder and laughs. Her fingers are playing absently with your hair, and you wonder if everyone can hear your heart pounding.

"You know," Caroline says thoughtfully, "you two are either gonna be the greatest rivalry in college basketball."

"Or?" Paige asks, her hand stilling in your hair.

Caroline grins. "Or something else entirely."

Later that night, back in Paige's room, the energy shifts. You're both aware that tomorrow you head back to Harvard. Back to being rivals instead of whatever this is.

"Stay," she whispers against your lips, and this time you don't even pretend to argue about sleeping arrangements.

Her bed is small, forcing you to tangle together, every point of contact electric. You talk in whispers even though there's no one to hear—about basketball, about dreams, about the way this thing between you feels both impossible and inevitable.

"What are we doing?" she asks softly, tracing patterns on your skin.

"Getting into trouble," you murmur back, but you're smiling.

She kisses you then, slow and deep, like she's trying to memorize the feel of it. Like she knows these moments are stolen, precious because they're forbidden.

"Worth it," she breathes against your mouth.

Her lips linger on yours, swollen and glistening from the fervent exchange, but it’s her hands that steal your breath entirely. One traces the curve of your hip, a teasing promise of what’s to come, while the other dips lower, testing the heat between your thighs.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs, her voice low, husky, vibrating against your collarbone as she kisses her way down, each touch deliberate, reverent.

You can’t answer, not in words. The way your body arches into her touch, the hitch in your breath, the soft sound that escapes your lips—those are your answers, undeniable and raw.

“Good,” she breathes, her fingers curling around the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down slowly, almost torturously. The air feels cold against your bare skin, but then she’s there, her breath warm, her hands firm and sure as they spread your thighs wider.

The first press of her tongue is electric, like lightning racing up your spine. She moves with precision, her fingers parting you as her tongue explores every sensitive inch, coaxing moans from you that you didn’t know you could make. She hums in satisfaction, the vibrations adding another layer of pleasure that makes your hips buck against her.

“Stay still,” she murmurs, though the command is half-lost in the mess of you. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as she dives deeper, her tongue swirling, teasing, her lips closing around your most sensitive spot to suck gently before flicking it again. The rhythm she sets is maddening, relentless, a perfect balance of pressure and pace.

Your hands find her hair, tangling in the golden waves as you try to ground yourself against the rising tide of sensation. She takes it as encouragement, slipping a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. She moans against you, the sound guttural and raw, and it’s too much, too good.

“Paige,” you gasp, her name a prayer, a plea, as you shatter beneath her, your body trembling, every nerve alight. She doesn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of your release until you’re panting, boneless, completely undone.

Her mouth lingers, slow and insistent, drinking in every gasp and tremor she pulls from you. Paige is relentless, her tongue working you with precision, her fingers curling just right inside you as if she’s memorized every little sound you make, every shift of your hips. When she finally eases up, her lips leaving a final, teasing kiss against your trembling heat, she doesn’t pull away completely. Instead, she slides up your body, her fingers tracing a path up your thighs, over your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

She’s grinning, a little smug, her lips glistening, her eyes dark and wild. “You know,” she murmurs, her voice low and rasping, “you’re so goddamn sexy when you play. The way you move… the way you take control.”

Her words are a spark, reigniting the fire already coursing through you. You pull her down, kissing her fiercely, tasting yourself on her tongue, a mix of sweetness and salt and Paige. It’s intoxicating, like she’s everywhere, filling every corner of your senses.

“I could say the same about you,” you breathe between kisses, your hands sliding under her shirt, finding the warmth of her skin. “The way you take the court, like it’s yours… fuck, Paige.”

Her laugh is low, breathy, against your lips. “Show me, then. Show me how much you like it.”

You flip her gently, taking her by surprise as she falls back against the sheets, her golden hair fanned out like a halo. She’s stunning, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she gazes up at you with a hunger that mirrors your own. You kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the way she melts under you, the way her body arches to meet yours, desperate for contact.

Your lips leave hers to trail down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. Each kiss draws a shiver from her, her hands gripping your back, nails digging into your skin as you take your time exploring her. You pull her shirt up and over her head, baring her to the soft light spilling through the window.

“God,” you murmur, your voice thick, your hands tracing the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach, the strength in her arms. “You’re perfect.”

She groans softly, pulling you down to her, her legs tangling with yours. “Stop looking at me like that and do something about it.”

You grin, pressing a kiss just below her ear, then lower, your lips and tongue finding every sensitive spot as you work your way down. Her body responds to you like music, every sigh and gasp and moan drawing you further, making you crave more. When your lips finally find her, the sound she makes—half gasp, half cry—is enough to send a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Shit,” she whispers, her hips bucking against you as your tongue moves, deliberate and slow. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you can feel the way her body shakes under your touch, her breath coming faster, her voice breaking as she pleads for more.

You give it to her, taking your time, savoring the way she falls apart for you, how her voice grows louder, her grip tighter, until she finally comes undone, her body trembling, her cries echoing in your ears like a song.

You kiss your way back up her body, slow and deliberate, her skin warm and flushed beneath your lips. When you reach her mouth, she pulls you into a kiss so deep it feels like she’s trying to claim you, her hands roaming over you, pulling you closer, needing you like air.

“I’m not done with you,” she murmurs, her voice rough but soft, her hands slipping between your thighs, finding you already aching for her again.

“Paige," you whisper, but she silences you with a kiss, her touch unrelenting as she presses you back into the sheets.

Her body moves against yours, perfectly in sync, her touch everywhere at once—gentle and firm, teasing and demanding. The world narrows to just her, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, the way her body feels pressed against yours as she takes you apart piece by piece, only to put you back together again with her hands, her lips, her love.

And when you both finally collapse, spent and tangled together, her head resting on your chest, the room feels impossibly still, the air thick with everything unsaid but understood. You stroke her hair absently, your breathing slowing, your heart still racing in tandem with hers.

“Still think I’m sexy when I play?” she teases softly, her voice muffled against your skin.

You laugh, pulling her closer. “I think you’re sexy all the time.”

Her lips curve against your chest in a satisfied smile. “Good. Because I’m never letting you forget it.”

Her breath evens out against your shoulder, her body soft and pliant as she molds herself to your side. The room is quiet now, save for the occasional rustle of the sheets and the distant hum of the campus stirring to life outside. You stroke her hair absentmindedly, the golden strands slipping like silk through your fingers, and she hums softly, her hand draped across your stomach, anchoring you to the moment.

But as the heat of the night begins to fade, something else creeps in—a faint, nagging ache in your chest that you can’t quite ignore. You close your eyes, trying to push it away, to focus on the rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her skin against yours. But it’s there, stubborn and persistent: the thought of March, of bright lights and roaring crowds, of her on the other side of the court, no longer your lover but your rival.

She stirs, tilting her head up to look at you, her eyes soft and half-lidded, her lips swollen from your kisses. “What’s on your mind?” she murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter.

You hesitate, your fingers stilling in her hair. “Just thinking.”

“About?” she prompts, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach.

“March,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper. The word feels heavy in the quiet, like a pebble dropped into still water.

Her gaze sharpens slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your chest, just above your heart. “It’s just a game,” she says softly, but there’s something in her tone that tells you she knows it’s more than that.

You shake your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Not to me. Not to you, either.”

She doesn’t deny it, her silence speaking louder than words. For a moment, you’re both quiet, the weight of what’s coming settling between you. It’s a strange, bittersweet ache—the knowledge that this, whatever it is, will be tested, challenged by the world beyond this room.

But then she lifts her head, her eyes locking with yours, and there’s something fierce in her gaze, something unshakable. “When we’re out there, I’ll play to win. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” you reply, your voice steady, even as your chest tightens. “And I’ll do the same.”

Her lips curve into a small, knowing smile, and she leans up to kiss you, slow and lingering, like she’s trying to hold onto this moment as tightly as you are. “Good,” she whispers against your lips. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

When she settles back down, her head resting on your chest once more, you let yourself relax, let the tension bleed away, if only for a little while. There’s still time before March, before the lights and the pressure and the impossible stakes. For now, there’s only her, her hand in yours, her body warm and safe against your own.

And as sleep begins to pull you under, you can’t help but think that whatever happens—whatever the game brings, whatever the world throws at you—it’ll be worth it. Because for all the risks, all the complications, all the things that might break you, there’s one thing you know for sure: she’s worth it. She always will be.

Sunday morning comes too fast, the sunlight pooling around you, unforgiving in its insistence that the world outside Paige’s room still exists. You stir under the blanket, her warmth pressed against your side, her hand resting on your stomach. You don’t want to move; if you’re honest, you don’t want the day to come at all.

She sighs softly in her sleep, her breath feathering against your shoulder, and it hits you again—how impossibly beautiful she looks like this, messy and undone, tangled in sheets that still carry the weight of last night. You turn your head slightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, the act so natural it startles you.

Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, but the corner of her mouth curves when she sees you. “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice rough and slow, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

“Morning,” you reply, your hand brushing the wild strands of hair from her face.

Neither of you moves, the silence stretching out, too fragile to break. But it’s there—the inevitable pull of the day, dragging you closer to the goodbye you’re not ready to say. You try to ignore it, try to focus on the way her fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, the way her body fits so perfectly against yours.

“Do you have to go?” she asks finally, her voice soft, but there’s a weight behind it, a quiet desperation that pulls at your chest.

You hesitate, because the truth feels too heavy to say out loud. “Jasmine’s waiting for me.”

She doesn’t argue, just presses her face into your neck, her breath warm against your skin. “Five more minutes.”

You laugh softly, your arms tightening around her. “We said that an hour ago.”

“And yet, here we are,” she teases, but her smile falters as she pulls back to look at you. “Stay.”

Her voice is a whisper, but it carries the force of a command, and for a moment, you’re tempted to throw everything to the wind. Forget Harvard, forget practice, forget the looming storm of March Madness. But reality claws at the edges of the moment, a reminder you can’t ignore.

“I can’t,” you say quietly, and it feels like the words cut both of you.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of your (her) hoodie, and for a second, you think she’s going to argue, but instead, she leans up, her lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it feels like it might shatter. It lingers, slow and tender, like she’s trying to memorize the feel of you, trying to hold onto something she knows she can’t keep.

When you finally pull away, her eyes are bright, a mix of emotions you can’t untangle. “Promise me something,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let this scare you,” she whispers. “Not what people think, not what’s coming. Don’t let it ruin this.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling in your chest. “I won’t,” you say, and you mean it, even if you don’t know how.

She nods, her smile small but real, and when you kiss her one last time, it feels like a promise.

Later, as you stand in the doorway, your bag slung over your shoulder, the goodbye feels heavier than you expected. Paige leans against the doorframe, her hair a mess, her lips still pink from your kisses, and it takes everything in you not to turn back.

“Text me when you get home,” she says, her attempt at casual missing by miles.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tight. “I will.”

You make it three steps before you stop, turning back. She’s still there, still watching, and you close the distance in two strides, your lips meeting hers in one last, desperate kiss. When you pull away, her hand lingers on your arm, and for a moment, you’re certain you’ll never want anything as much as you want her.

“Bye,” you whisper, and it feels like the hardest word you’ve ever said.

“Bye, Rocket,” she replies, her smile bittersweet.

You leave before you can change your mind, the burning in your chest growing stronger with every step. The train ride back to Harvard is a blur, your mind replaying every moment, every touch, every stolen glance. By the time you walk into your apartment, Sierra is already waiting, her face lighting up with a mix of excitement and disbelief when she sees you.

But you barely hear her questions, barely register Jasmine showing you the Twitter feeds and SportsCenter highlights. All you can think about is Paige—her laugh, her touch, the way she said your name like it was something sacred.

And as you lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, you can’t shake the thought that March is coming too fast. The court will be the same, the stakes higher than ever, but everything feels different now. Because you know, deep down, that every pass, every drive, every shot will carry the weight of her eyes on you, her voice in your head, her heart in your hands.

And you can’t decide if that makes you stronger—or breaks you completely.

Monday’s practice doesn’t do you any favors. You walk in wearing a neutral hoodie—because you’re not that reckless—but Coach Matthews still gives you a pointed once-over.

“Nice sweatshirt,” she says, her tone dry as Arizona in July.

You open your mouth to deny, deflect, anything—but Sierra beats you to it. “She’s just branching out,” she quips, smirking. “UConn blue really brings out her eyes.”

You’re going to kill her. Slowly. Later. For now, you bury yourself in drills, sinking three after three like muscle memory is your only salvation. Except it’s not, because every damn movement feels like Paige. The way she drives to the basket. The way her passes always find the perfect angle. The way her eyes tracked you during that stupid, unforgettable practice.

The team, bless their nosy little hearts, doesn’t let up either. “Is it true you took on UConn’s starting five?” one asks.

“Did Geno actually try to steal you? Again?”

“Are you and Paige…?”

You hit another three, harder than necessary, and stalk to the water cooler. Sierra sidles up, because of course she does.

“Hey,” she says, not unkindly. “You good?”

“Define good,” you reply, sarcasm sharp enough to cut.

Sierra, annoyingly perceptive, just shrugs. “The team’s just curious. You’re their golden girl, and now you’re maybe-sorta-kinda in love with your biggest rival. It’s a lot.”

“I’m not—” you start, but your phone lights up, and your face does the thing again. The soft, stupid, smiley thing.

“Sure,” Sierra says, smirking. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The texts come later that night. Paige, as usual, doesn’t mince words.

so, how much trouble are we in?

You smirk at your phone, typing back.

none, if you keep your team’s mouths shut.

i can handle them. Can you handle yours?

You glance at Sierra’s empty room, Jasmine’s closed door.

yeah. for now.

Three dots. Then:

good. because i’m not letting this go.

The words make your chest ache, in a good way. In a dangerous way. But for now, it’s just a secret. A sweatshirt in your bag, a name on your screen, a quiet understanding that some things are better kept out of the spotlight.

And if the storm comes anyway? You’ll handle it when it does. Together.

The train hums beneath you, steady and rhythmic, a backdrop to the swirling haze of your thoughts. The sweatshirt Paige gave you is folded neatly on your lap, its scent still faintly there—lavender, sharp cedar, and something else that you can’t quite name but know you’d recognize in a heartbeat.

You should be sleeping. Or staring out the window at the blurred winter landscape, pretending to be reflective and moody, but instead, you’re staring at your phone like a lovesick teenager. Which, technically, you are.

Her last text sits at the top of the screen, smug in its simplicity.

miss you already. text me when you get home.

You’ve read it so many times, the words have started to blur. Miss you already. Like you’re something worth missing. Like the weekend hadn’t just been everything.

The old lady across the aisle glances at you, her eyebrows furrowing like she can smell the heart eyes from her seat. You flip your phone facedown and pretend to be fascinated by the guy three rows ahead eating a tuna sandwich like it’s his last meal. Anything to stop replaying the way Paige had kissed you goodbye—slow, deep, like she was trying to memorize it.

But then the phone buzzes again, and you’re quick, too quick, fumbling it upright.

also, if you don’t tell Sierra where you were this weekend, i will. and I’ll make it sound worse than it was. or better. depends on the mood i’m in.

You snort, the sound startling the old lady. Her scowl deepens. You type back without thinking:

what, you’re not gonna give me a chance to come up with a good lie?

The reply is instant.

you’re terrible at lying, rocket. stick to shooting.

It’s not fair, how easily she does this—makes you grin like an idiot in the middle of a public space. The train announces your stop, the crackling intercom pulling you out of whatever spell Paige had you under, and you tuck your phone away, the sweatshirt pressed tightly under your arm.

Sierra greets you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow when you walk into the apartment. “You look disgustingly happy.”

“I am happy,” you reply, trying to fight the smile creeping up your face.

“That’s what worries me.” She leans against the counter, studying you. “How was your little rivalry trip?”

“Fine,” you say, brushing past her and heading for your room.

She laughs. “Fine. Sure. Whatever you say, Rocket.”

Inside your room, you toss your bag onto the bed and pull out your phone. Paige’s name stares back at you from the screen, your last conversation still open. You hesitate, wondering if texting too soon makes you seem clingy, then roll your eyes at yourself and type:

made it back. already miss that sweaty gym smell.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

liar. you loved it. miss you more.

You can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across your face, the warmth it brings despite the cold draft creeping through your window. This feels easy. Natural. Like she’s right there with you instead of miles away in Storrs.

You slide onto your bed, fingers poised to type something clever back, but instead, you pause. The sweatshirt is still in your lap, soft and worn, and you tug it over your head without thinking. It’s oversized, hanging loose on your frame, but it feels good. It feels like her.

Your phone buzzes again, and you glance at the screen.

don’t sleep in my hoodie. you’ll ruin it.

You snort, typing back:

already wearing it.

Her reply is almost instant:

figures. good night, rocket. dream of me.

always.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until your alarm wakes you the next morning, the phone still clutched in your hand and Paige’s name still glowing on the screen.

For the first week, it’s effortless. Every day feels like an extension of that weekend—texts flying back and forth, calls that stretch into the early hours of the morning, your voices sleepy but refusing to let go. She sends you pictures of her sneakers (“new kicks, who dis”), blurry photos of her teammates making dumb faces in the locker room, even a video of her crossing up some poor freshman in practice.

You match her energy, sending her memes, complaining about your coursework, telling her about that one teammate who still can’t figure out a basic pick-and-roll.

It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’ve been doing this forever.

But then, somewhere in the second week, the rhythm falters.

It’s a Thursday afternoon when you notice it. You’re sitting in the library, a half-empty coffee cup on the desk beside you, when you send her a text.

kill it at practice today?

It takes her three hours to reply.

was okay. tired. you?

You frown at the screen, rereading her words. The response is fine. Normal. But there’s something about it—something flat, like the energy isn’t there.

good. the usual drills. i think Coach is trying to kill us.

This time, the reply comes quicker.

lol. sounds about right.

You stare at the message, waiting for more. A joke, a question, anything. But nothing else comes.

By the end of the week, her texts are starting to feel uneven. Some days, she’s herself again—sending you goofy pictures, teasing you about your shooting form, calling you late at night just to hear your voice. But other days, she’s distant. Replies come slower, shorter, like she’s preoccupied with something she won’t tell you.

You don’t want to push. You know how grueling the season can be, how exhausting the constant practices and travel schedules are. But the unease lingers, settling in your chest like a stone.

One night, you call her. It’s late, almost midnight, and you’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour, your thoughts too loud to ignore.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

Her voicemail picks up.

You hang up without leaving a message, tossing your phone onto the nightstand with more force than necessary.

The next morning, you wake up to a text from her:

sorry, fell asleep. long day. Miss you, rocket.

The words feel like a balm, soothing the ache from the night before. You tell yourself not to overthink it, to let it go.

But then it happens again.

A missed call. A delayed reply. Another vague excuse.

You start keeping track without meaning to. Three unanswered texts this week. Two missed calls. A growing list of reasons you tell yourself not to be upset:

She’s busy.

She’s tired.

It’s nothing.

By the fourth week, you’ve stopped texting her first. Not because you’re angry, but because you’re tired. Tired of the one-word replies, the half-hearted conversations, the way she always seems just out of reach.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t care.

Either way, the silence grows.

Then, the video hits Twitter on a Tuesday morning.

You’re in Advanced Orbital Mechanics, half-listening as Professor Dillard drones on about transfer orbits and delta-v calculations. His voice is a flat monotone, the kind that barely registers after twenty minutes, but you keep your pen moving, scribbling half-legible equations in your notebook. The classroom is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and the faint smell of coffee and dry-erase markers clings to the air.

Your phone buzzes once, a sharp vibration against the desk. Then twice. Then again, the rhythm insistent. A few heads turn toward you, their eyes flicking briefly to the offending noise before returning to their own notes. You glance down at the screen, expecting to see the usual: Sierra sending a TikTok link she swears will “change your life,” or Jasmine reminding everyone about the next team meeting.

Instead, the notifications pile up faster than you can track.

Sierra: "don’t check twitter."

Jasmine: "rocket baby i’m so sorry."

Your stomach tightens, unease clawing at your chest. The buzzes don’t stop. One after another, messages flood in—texts from teammates, old friends, people you haven’t spoken to in years. The words blur together, overlapping until they’re nothing but noise.

The team group chat is a wildfire.

"Holy shit"

"Is that really...?"

"When was this?"

"Someone needs to check on Rocket."

You flip your phone over, trying to focus on Dillard’s lecture, but the vibration rattles against the desk, relentless. Finally, you give in, unlocking the screen with shaking fingers.

Twitter opens slowly, the loading circle spinning like it’s mocking you. The first thing you see is the video—top of your feed, trending already.

You don’t want to press play.

But you do.

The footage is shaky, the kind of video that screams “someone was not supposed to be recording this.” The lighting is dim, music pulsing faintly in the background, and it only takes a second for your stomach to drop. You know this place. You know that party. A UConn team event.

You see Paige and Azzi in a dark corner, laughing together. It’s innocent at first—until it isn’t. Azzi’s hand finds Paige’s waist. Paige leans in, her fingers tangling in Azzi’s hair. The way they look at each other—intimate, familiar. Like you’re not even a memory.

And then they’re kissing.

Not a first kiss. Not a hesitant, drunken mistake. This kiss is something else entirely—familiar, practiced.

The caption is almost worse than the video.

"The Prince has found her Princess? 👀 @azzi_35 @paigebueckers"

The phone slips from your hands and lands on the desk with a muted thud. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. The noise draws a glance from the girl sitting next to you, but you don’t meet her eyes. You can’t.

You’re The Prophecy. You’re unshakable. But right now, you’re just a girl who loved someone who made it look so easy to love someone else.

The lecture continues in the background, but it might as well be static. Your mind races, replaying the video in an endless loop, each frame sharper than the last. The way Paige had smiled. The way Azzi had leaned in. The way Paige hadn’t stopped her.

The phone buzzes again.

Sierra: “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Jasmine: “Talk to us, Rocket. Please.”

You don’t reply. You can’t.

Instead, you pack your things in a blur, shoving your notebook and pens into your bag with trembling hands. The professor’s voice follows you to the door, droning on about escape velocity, but you’re already gone.

You don’t cry. The Prophecy doesn’t cry.

Instead, you go to the only place that’s ever made sense: the gym.

The air outside is cold, sharp, biting against your skin as you make your way across campus. You barely notice it. Everything feels muffled, like you’re moving through a fog, the world blurred at the edges. The weight in your chest anchors you, pulling you forward.

The door slams behind you, the echo bouncing off the walls and rattling through the empty bleachers. You don’t bother with the lights. Don’t need them. You’ve made these shots in your sleep.

The air is stale, a mix of old sweat and the faint bite of disinfectant. It settles in your lungs, heavy but familiar. The ball rack sits in its usual spot, the leather scuffed and worn, the only constant thing in a world that’s suddenly upside down.

You grab the first ball you touch, its surface cool and rough under your fingertips. You spin it once, testing the weight. It feels right. Solid.

Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you step to the free-throw line. You take a breath, chest tight, and focus on the rim—a faint outline in the shadows.

Release. Swish.

The sound cuts through the dark, clean and sharp. You grab another ball, your movements quick, automatic. No time to think. Thinking is dangerous.

This time, you picture Paige. Her smile, the way she looked at Azzi in the video—like you weren’t even a memory.

Release. Swish.

Another ball. Her hand in Azzi’s hair. The way they leaned into each other like it was easy. Like it was nothing.

Another ball. Paige laughing, Azzi’s arm around her waist.

Release. Swish.

The way Paige looked at her, like she was her world. Release. Swish.

You move faster, grabbing ball after ball from the rack, launching them with more force each time. Each shot lands clean, cutting through the dark air with sharp precision. The physics is still there, but now it’s powered by something darker. Something raw and jagged.

Release. Swish.

Your chest heaves, breath shallow, heart pounding against your ribs. You’re not even looking at the rim anymore, just firing into the darkness. Each shot is a missile, and the target is the knot of anger and heartbreak lodged deep inside you.

The rhythm becomes hypnotic: swish, bounce, swish, bounce.

And then it happens.

A memory hits you mid-shot: Paige sitting on the bleachers, chin in her hand, watching you practice. The way she smiled that first time she said, "God, you’re perfect."

Your fingers slip, the ball leaving your hands wrong. You know it immediately. The rotation’s off, the arc’s too flat. For the first time in 1,147 shots, The Prophecy misses.

The clang of the rim is deafening in the stillness.

You freeze. The ball rolls to a stop somewhere in the shadows.

Then something inside you cracks wide open.

The scream tears out of you before you can stop it—raw, guttural, primal. It echoes through the gym, bouncing back at you like the sound of your own heartbreak mocking you.

The rack of balls goes flying as you shove it over, the sound of them scattering across the court like stars. You’re on your knees before you realize it, fists pounding against the hardwood, your throat raw, your vision blurring with something you promised yourself you wouldn’t feel.

"Rocket!"

The voice barely registers. Then hands are on your shoulders, pulling you back. You twist, trying to break free, but then you hear it again.

"I’ve got you," Sierra whispers. Her arms wrap around you, holding you steady as you shatter into pieces.

Jasmine is there too, her hands stroking your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “We’re here,” she murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

"She—" your voice cracks, breaking apart like glass. "They—"

"We know," Jasmine murmurs, pulling you closer. "We know, baby. It’s okay."

"I missed," you choke out, the words hollow and broken. "I never miss."

Sierra pulls back just enough to cup your face, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You’re allowed to miss," she says firmly. "You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to be human."

"But The Prophecy—"

"Fuck The Prophecy," Jasmine says fiercely, her voice steady as a rock. "Right now, you’re just our girl, and you’re hurting, and that’s okay."

The words hit you like a lifeline, and finally, you let yourself collapse into them. You let the tears come, let them see the raw, vulnerable part of you that’s been hidden for so long. They hold you there on the court where you’ve been perfect, where you’ve made history, where you just missed for the first time because someone you loved broke your heart.

Later, they’ll help you to your feet. They’ll walk you home. They’ll make sure you eat, sleep, and breathe, even when it feels impossible.

Later, Paige will blow up your phone:

“please let me explain."

“it’s not what you think."

“i never meant to hurt you."

Later, you’ll pick yourself up and turn this pain into something sharper, something unbreakable.

But right now, in the dark gym, in the arms of your best friends, you let yourself break. You let yourself be human. You let yourself feel everything you’ve been trying to calculate away.

Because some things are perfect until they break.

And some things are stronger after breaking.

Proceed to the next part.

653 notes · View notes

hurthermore · 9 months ago

Text

»»------► 𝚁𝚞𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚜 (18+)

Pairing: 𝙰𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚡 𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

Summary: 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕; 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

Word Count: 𝟹.𝟼𝚔

Warnings: 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚜, 𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕, 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚍𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝

A/N: 𝚆𝚘𝚠! 𝚂𝚘, 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 ��𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝟷𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜- 𝚂𝙾 𝙸 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚅𝙸𝙳𝙴!! 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖; 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝙷𝚄𝙶𝙴 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟��𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎!<𝟹

𝙹𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!

Dealing with the effects of a rut was a notion Alastor was all too familiar with, and one he had surprisingly found rather effortless to maintain throughout his years in hell. A rut for the cursed Radio Demon was but a moment of time on the yearly calendar where the simplicity of agitation affected him more so than usual, and was, in no means, sexual, despite the biologicality of a ruts mere purpose.

Yet the complication of a new addition to the Hazbin Hotel had recklessly disarranged not only how he had felt towards the emotion of love, but the usual easy going months of a rut. The simple inclusion of you had riled up his rut in a way he never could have expected as he found himself reduced to a panting mess, craving your touch as his cock begged to be kissed by any part of your skin.

Not only was the desire of sexual intercourse new territory for Alastor, but it was a desire he had promised himself to not overtake his well controlled sense of self presentation. He couldn’t; he had an image to uphold and allowing any absurd yearning to dictate his actions was not only unbecoming of him, but detrimental to him.

So he did the best thing his mind could conjure; to avoid you and any thoughts of you until his rut finally reached the end of its exploits. Which was not only painstakingly difficult, but had annoyingly set a rather unsettling feeling inside of him as you had embedded yourself in a place within his usually vacant heart; his want to be with you, to engage in meaningless chatter with you, to simply bask in your presence, regardless of his rut, was consuming him more and more as he continued to avoid you.

It was difficult in both regards; his body, heart, gut, and cock all begged to be near you, but his mind demanded he keep his distance, to avoid your presence from worsening the need to fuck himself into you; and oh was that a task in itself, but one he had managed to pull off. He had noticed, of course, being the observant man he was, that it had deeply hurt and affected you as he avoided you for almost a month straight. The face that you would pull whenever he would allow his shadows to warp him away from a room you had entered, or whenever you attempted to call out to him, had his chest constricting in a way he wasn’t used to; a way that hurt his innards.

He had, to alleviate the pain of having to deny you his presence and the pain his rut had brought him, found himself busying his time with ridiculous chores around the hotel; ones he would usually leave for his owned souls to be allocated in. It had helped, for a time, until the remnants of your voice that reverberated through the hotel always ended up tickling his ears in such a lovely tone, forcing him to hide within the confines of his own materialised space every single night; only to pierce his long taloned claws into the barks of trees as he refused to even touch his own cock to relieve the pulsing of his sex that begged to be snugged within the warm and wet walls of your cunt.

Yet he found tonight was different to his usual need to hide from you. Your voice had yet again alerted him of your presence being in the lobby of the hotel, precisely in the bar area, and he had heard his own cursed name fall from the lusciousness of your lips in vexation. The familiarity of your silked voice had his cock throbbing in lust instantly, forcing his yellowed teeth to penetrate into the skin of his lower lip in an attempt to alleviate the sensations that his rut had inflicted upon him. But, for some reason, this time, his body had won over his mind as his hooves began to lead him closer to your voice. The pent up afflictions of everything he had allowed to build up over the course of the month had affected him dearly, and even though he usually refused to give in, this time, he couldn’t help but allow his primal urges to make the decision for him.

Drawing closer to your voice like a man entranced by a siren’s song, his breath began to heave as drool cascaded down his sharpened chin, hoping that no one would witness him in such a state; no one but you. But as he rounded the corner to the lobby of the hotel, his ears twitched in irritation as the familiar voice of Angel Dust shook through his system.

So you weren’t alone.

Rolling his own eyes, jealousy began to course through him. He knew if he hadn’t been avoiding you, you would be stuck to his side, not some adult picture show actor. As envy began to overtake him, the logical side of his mind was able to convince him to hide away in his room again, just like every other night, only to wreak havoc on his own living space to combat the sensations; but before he could turn away, you had spoken something that had made his heart pump in pain.

“I think Alastor hates me.”

He didn’t know why such a small sentence had affected him so; if anyone else had said such a thing he’d simply laugh before ignoring it, but the fact you believed he hated you had pained him in a way that had his body screaming to comfort you, to set your mind at ease despite how the other half of his mind wanted to reject his urges. Tightening his smile ever so slightly in pain, he allowed his body to once again dictate his course of actions; actions that had him warping himself into the shadows that lurked around the dimmed room before hiding inside your own shadow as you continued your conversation.

“He’s been avoiding me like the fucking plague, Angel, I don’t know what I’ve done or said to him that could’ve caused this, and everytime I try to talk to him he just disappears.” The torment in your voice had broken him, and although he knew his avoidance had hurt you throughout the past month, he had not taken into account that it would have manipulated you into believing he hated you. He had only wished to avoid facing his problems of the unfamiliarity of sexual arousal, an arousal that longed for you, as well as refusing to allow himself to lose control of his well put together persona, refusing to allow the possibility of his body pouncing on you before rutting himself deep inside you, despite how much he wished to do as much.

“Maybe he found out ya’ like him an’ wanna fuck his deer daddy dick and got all grossed out ‘bout it.” Angel had commented before laughing; smacking your back in jest, not realising how harshly those words most likely affected you.

Fuck.

Alastor wasn’t expecting the sensations of his rut to flare up so dramatically as the implication of you not only reciprocating his feelings, but the additional implication that you also wanted to fornicate with him was made known to him. His shadowed self began to tremble ever so slightly against the floorboards as the thought of you screaming out in pleasure below him swarmed his mind, dousing it in provocative images of you bared and ready for him.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking too. I can’t imagine anything else that would make him avoid me to this extent.” You had confirmed Alastor’s speculation as you responded to the porn actor, making the blood rush almost instantly to his already throbbing and needy cock. His body was reacting more erratically at this newfound information, and the desire to simply bend you over the bar right at that moment before fucking you in front of everyone around was becoming an urge that was rather difficult to fight off.

Tensing everything within, his overflowing thoughts of simply pumping into you drowned out the conversation between yourself and Angel. His ever consuming imagination of burying himself deep inside you before pumping his knot into your core was all that he could conjure in his mind. The only thought that doused him was seeing your pretty little abused cunt filled with his cock and cum. He hadn’t known how long he had stayed there, attached to your shadow as he allowed primal thoughts of mating with you surround him, but clearly long enough as you began shimmying yourself off the stool next to the bar before clicking your heels against the floor.

Focusing his attention back onto you, he prevented the deep growl that threatened to leave his larynx as his oculi fixated on your form; the same form that wore a ridiculously short dress with stockings and garter belts that squished so tightly into your skin so tight that he could see the fat of your flesh pop out from its indents ever so slightly.

Who did you think you were, allowing anyone to witness the soft plush of your skin?

You were Alastor's; only he should have the privilege of seeing such things.

Not registering the overly possessive thought that usually would have alerted him, Alastor continued to watch your movements from behind as he trailed his shadow along with yours. He hadn’t noticed his surroundings as you entered the library, his gaze solely focused on the slight sway of your hips and how the fat of your thighs undulated with every step you took, not until you stood still at an aisle within the room, looking for a type of book.

It was at that moment he recalled why he had avoided you for the past month; the desire to completely make you his was becoming too much, so much so that he had found his hand reaching out from the shadow below you, attempting to reach for the thick of your thighs, just for a tiny touch. But reason overtook him, causing his movements to halt, his fingers straining in a twitch as he denied himself the sweet touch of your unknowing skin; he couldn’t do this, regardless of how you had reciprocated his emotions, the estrangement of desire and love was unbecoming for him, a weakness he didn't want to exist.

But then you had to bend over as you reached for a book, your short dress riding up your hips as you did, gracing Alastor’s eyes with the flimsy piece of lingerie that covered your puffy cunt. His breath had hitched and his rut began screaming, demanding, forcing him to reach out to you, to finally consummate with you, but your own posterior achieved that for him as you bent your knees, unintentionally brushing your clothed core against his reaching fingers.

Before you could scream from the sudden touch, Alastor had quickly conjured a black appendage from the bookshelf, plunging it into your opening mouth, forcing the scream that threatened to abrupt from your throat to be silenced within your oesophagus. Materialising himself from the shadows he had once hidden himself within, he stood tall behind you, wrapping his taloned fingers against your throat before pushing your front against the bookshelf harshly, knocking some novels onto the floor in the process before he pushed his own front against your back as he humped his hard throbbing cock against the small of your back.

The terror in your eyes had made his cock twitch within his suit pants, but he needed you to know it was him, not some stranger doing this to you; so he tilted your neck back, forcing you to look up and into his eyes as he stood tall behind you. As your eyes connected, the terror in your eyes seemed to disappear instantaneously, replaced with shock and a glimmer of hope; lust.

“Such a filthy little darling aren’t you?” He had whispered in your ears as his cock still rubbed against your lower back. “Making me feel these things; this is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” His tone came out more frustrated than he had intended; but he was indeed frustrated, frustrated that you had made him lose control of himself.

The appendage in your mouth slowly left the confines of your throat as Alastor wished to hear your beautiful voice that called for him everyday, only to smear its tip across your lips as you coughed ever so softly. “Al-“ You began to speak as he rubbed his pelvis against you with more vigour. “Why are you-“ Your sentence contorted into a choked moan as his fingers around your throat were replaced for the same appendage that had just explored your mouth.

“Why am I doing this?” He completed your sentence for you as his talons caressed the sides of your waist, rubbing his thumbs into your clothed skin before hitching them skyward until his palms grasped your breasts. “Such a stupid little thing you are; a stupid, pretty little thing.” He groaned into your ear before allowing his urges to completely overtake him, his lips pressing sloppily against your cheek before his hands pulled the top of your dress down, allowing your bare breasts to become exposed to him.

Growling ever so loudly, his fingertips squeezed and massaged your breasts as though they were his own personal stress reliever, pinching your erect nipples before pulling on your mounds without remorse, forcing your scalp to lean back against his shoulder as you moaned out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. “That’s it.” Alastor groaned against your cheek as he continued his assault. “Keep moaning for your master like the good little whore you are.”

The appendage around your throat tightened ever so slightly as you had begun reciprocating his harsh humping against you, forcing your posterior to grind against his clothed cock.

Groaning at your positive response to his assault, Alastor's claws left your breasts to rip the dress off your body, the shredded remains falling to the floor. “Alastor-“ You had whined so seductively, making his need to rut into you more intense; something he didn’t think was possible.

“Keep saying it, my slutty darling; don’t stop.” He had begged you with demand before he dropped to his knees. “Don’t you dare stop saying my name.” A demand he threatened you with before his palms cupped the fat of your ass, squeezing it and puncturing his talons within it as you completed his request to keep crying out his name.

He knew, realistically, that he would not last long once he entered his overly needy cock inside of your lovely warm walls; especially with the fact of him being a complete virgin, and the pent up rage of his rut. Being the gentleman he was, despite how unruly his current actions were, he would never expect you to get him off without giving you the same satisfaction of a release. So he prolonged his tongue from his mouth before dragging it up the length of your stocking covered legs, covering the skin that peaked between your stockings and garter belt with his red salvia.

All the while he nipped and licked your thighs, you continued to moan his name, your hands gripping against the shelf before you as you prevented yourself from falling over from the sheer lust that was flowing through you. “Please, Alastor, please touch me.” You had begged so nicely, begged him to touch your cunt. He craved to tease you, to make you tell him exactly where you wished to be touched until you cried for him; but his need to fuck his cock into was too intense for any prolonging, so he gave into your request without question as he sunk his tongue between the cheeks of your ass before plunging it inside of your cunt.

With his face pressed against your soft and luscious ass as his tongue dove within your walls, the familiar taste of flesh doused his taste buds, but there was also another taste he had never experienced before; one that was unexplainable, but oh so lovely.

His new favourite treat, he had decided.

Your cries of pleasure made his ears twitch erratically in all directions, making his knot swell within his already hardened cock. His hands never left the plush of your posterior whilst he fucked his tongue inside of your core, massaging the fat as your gummy and warm walls massaged his oral muscle that slicked deep inside of you.

He wanted you to hurry up; to come undone on his tongue, to scream his name from your mouth and collapse on the floor quickly so he could finally relieve some of the pain that his rut had brought upon him. Conjuring another appendage, he guided it to lace around your untouched and throbbing clit. The noises that escaped your mouth as it did only motivated Alastor to press harder, to plunge his face against you further to force his tongue deeper, harder, and faster inside of you.

The moans, the cries, and the whining that left your beautiful lips almost had him releasing in his own pants, especially as your stocking covered thighs began trembling; the muscles in your legs threatening to cease working as your orgasm began approaching. Alastor couldn’t help but let his own groan of pleasure out of his throat as you began pushing your ass against his face, gyrating your hips to ride his tongue as you cried out.

He was surprised no one had heard you yet; but that was the least of his worries.

Groaning yet again, Alastor's eyes rolled back in pleasure as the over fluxation of your orgasm began to soak his tongue and seep onto his lips, your voice screaming his name as you pushed your cunt against his face as you came. Eating up your juices, he pulled away from your core ever so slowly, a string of lubricant connecting between your cunt and his tongue refusing to tear until he conjured multiple appendages from different surfaces to grasp around different parts of your body; squeezing you ever so slightly before forcing your face to be pressed against the floor as your ass was pulled up.

“Such a pretty little cunt for such a dirty little slut.” Alastor groaned as he looked at your exposed puffy sex. His hands making quick work of releasing his cock from the confines of his clothes as he desperately craved to fill you up with his cum. “My dirty little slut, aren’t you?”

You had nodded eagerly despite his appendages holding your skull down. “Yes, Alastor; I’m yours.” You moaned, telling him with your words and showing him with your body language how much you reciprocated his longing for you. Stroking a hand down your spine, Alastor pressed the tip of his cock against your welcoming walls.

“Good girl.” He groaned before pushing his cock inside you with a roughness you clearly weren’t expecting from the fucked out look on your face. He hadn’t expected the feeling of fornication to be so intense; so pleasurable. His cock was already on the verge of combusting as he soaked in the beauty of your cunt, the tightness and warmth it offered his length.

Alastor, right then and there, had decided he wanted this for the rest of his life; to have you, not only around his cock, but by his side.

Your voice screamed in shock as he forced his cock to hit against your cervix, making Alastor crave to push his throbbing knot to enter you; to finally fill you up. Rutting himself inside of you, he retracted his black appendages from your body before threading one hand through your hair whilst the other wrapped around your neck, pulling you backwards to flush your head against his chest.

Looking down at you as he roughly fucked his cock within you, he smiled with tension. “You’re mine now; you belong to me; I don’t care if I don’t own your soul. I will kill anyone who tries to keep you from me, do you understand?” You had screamed a flurry of yeses as Alastor pummelled his cock in and out of you after he had demanded for your submission to him; drool escaping your lips as his grip on your neck became tighter.

“Look at me.” He had demanded, his voice scratchy and glitched as he pulled your hair back further so you could make eye contact with him; and once you had managed to focus on fixating your gaze on his red glowing eyes instead of how deliciously his cock slid in and out of you with such roughness, forcing your body to jolt forward with every thrust, Alastor groaned as he gazed back into your eyes. “Look at me whilst I breed you.”

You did; you looked at him so intensely, even when the pain of him forcing his swelled knot to push into you, pushing the tip of his cock to intrude within the opening of your cervix as he pushed the rest of his length in, you still maintained a passionate eye contact with him. You had screamed through it despite your ability to maintain a gaze with him, and those screams were music to his ears, forcing groaned sighs to echo from his lips as his knot finally locked inside you, his thighs twitched and his balls squeezed as his cock spilled his thick and heavy seed inside you.

Alastor hadn’t known how long he had stayed within your walls as his cock continuously came inside your cunt, but it had been long; all that pent up aggression and sexual tension released in one session, forcing a months worth of cum to be released into your welcoming womb.

Leaning down towards you; his cock still stuck inside your cunt, he placed a kiss against your cheek; a sign of endearment to mark you as his officially.

“Mine.”

»»------►𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

#alastor x reader #alastor x you #hazbin alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #reader insert #x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader smut #alastor smut

2K notes · View notes

uchizana · 1 month ago

Text

SPARK

synopsis: in a whirlwind romance, a seemingly perfect relationship is shattered when jealousy rears its head, revealing minjeong’s unsettling obsessions and igniting a battle for sanity between love and darkness.

pairing: toxic girlfriend! minjeong x girlfriend!fem reader

warning(s): fire (uhm yeah...), jealousy, manipulation, toxic relationship, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, victimhood, violence. (let me know if I missed something!!)

word count: 7,2k (i had to rewrite it because my docs hates me and for some reason deleted the file where i had the original work... anyways this version is very similar.)

aespa masterlist.

your relationship with minjeong was complicated.

at first, the world appeared pastel and soft, built on hues of affection and endless laughter.

you remember the early days clearly — she was the kind of girlfriend who would take you out on dates every weekend,how she would surprise you with breathtaking bouquets, each more vibrant than the last. there were daisies, peonies, and delicate lilies, transforming corners of your home into a floral wonderland. your place started to resemble a botanical garden, petals spilling into every corner, their sweet scents blending with the memories of her laughter.

minjeong had a gift for warmth; there were times when she gazed at you as if you were a novel she could read forever, showering you with compliments that seemed to ebb and flow like the tides; “you look so beautiful today,” she would say, even on days when you hadn’t left the house or merely tied it into a messy bun. she would compliment you even when you forgot to fix your hair or wore an old hoodie.

her sweet, simple gestures spoke volumes—kissing you on the knuckles, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, and watching you intently when you spoke like you were the only thing in the universe that mattered. sometimes, she’d slip her hands into your pockets while you two held hands, wanting to keep your fingers warm when you forgot your gloves in winter. everything felt right, perfect.

but then, like a sudden storm cloud obscuring a clear sky, everything shifted. the first crack in your fairy tale surfaced when life’s mundane obligations got in the way of love. one fateful weekend, you had to make a choice — a subject looming over your head like a dark shadow. with an important exam creeping ever closer, you found yourself compelled to cancel your much-anticipated date night with her. the guilt settled heavily in your stomach as you dialed her number, knowing how much she’d been looking forward to it.

“hey minjeong, i’m really sorry…” you started, your palms sweaty around the phone. “i can’t make it this weekend. i need to study. it’s this exam, and—”

nerves consume you, leaving you speechless. there was a long pause on the line. you could practically hear the wheels turning in her mind.

“it’s okay,” she finally said, her voice tight. “don’t worry about it,” her voice chimed back, light yet edged with something you couldn’t pinpoint. “good luck with your studies.”

there was an unsettling dissonance lurked beneath the surface, leading you to believe she was fighting back something more than disappointment.

“i'm really sorry, baby. i promise i'll make it up to you as soon as possible.” you assure her, feeling the guilt eating away at you and making you feel bad, even when you weren't doing anything wrong other than putting your studies first.

“i told you not to worry about it. i understand, it seems that right now your studies are more important than your girlfriend, i get it.”

you didn’t miss the subtleties in her tone; the tension that suggested she was biting back words that didn’t fit into her kind demeanor.

“anyways, i'll hang up right now. i'll leave you to study in peace.”

however, judging by her tone of voice, you’d swear she was tapping the inside of her cheek with her tongue to keep from blurting out what she was really thinking.

of course, that’s how it was. you used that weekend to study, but there were a couple of changes along the way. you ended up meeting at a friend’s house to study. she told you that she had knowledge of the subject since her sister was studying the same subjects at university and spent nights and nights studying, so inevitably your friend ended up listening to her sister study, whether she wanted to or not, memorizing more knowledge than she anticipated.

you were focused on studying, hair tied in a messy bun, books and notebooks scattered all over the table, along with pencils and empty coffee cups. your friend thought it was kind of funny to see you so focused on studying when most of the time you never studied for tests or even put a pencil down in class, so she had no better idea than to take a photo when you weren’t looking.

you were deep in the grasp of equations and theories when your friend, in a mischievous moment, snapped a photo of you. you had been so absorbed that you hadn’t sensed her reach for her phone.

as she clicked the shutter, the light captured you: hair a mess, scribbles sprawled across your notebook, a look of fierce concentration. unbeknownst to you, that seemingly harmless moment cascaded into something monumental. your friend, having the joys of social media at her fingertips, instantly uploaded it to her instagram stories, a lighthearted snapshot of you crushing it at studying.

minjeong was home, idly watching television, when her phone buzzed, instantly receiving the notification that your friend had made a post seconds ago. why she had notifications from your friends activated and how she managed to get updates in real-time? well, that was a secret better left unsaid. you knew that she followed your friends closely, but you never thought much of it. that was her way of staying connected, of knowing what you were up to, as if weaving a delicate thread between you, even from afar. but this thread snapped when she clicked on the notification.

within moments, minjeong sat frozen in her living room, her heart racing. she glanced at the photo on her phone: you, hair piled haphazardly, surrounded by crumpled papers and empty coffee cups, looking like you were about to conquer an academic mountain. but it wasn’t only that. in the background, through the window, she could see your friend's house, ryujin’s house. the instant flash of jealousy sparked inside her—a gut-wrenching twist of envy that she fought to suppress.

the blossoming rage was immediate and insatiable. she nearly smashed her phone against the wall, leaving it to dangle dangerously from her fingertips, all shatters and anger. seconds felt like hours as her mind raced, spiraling through anger and betrayal with dizzying speed.

her hand trembled, tightening around the phone as she scanned the comments already popping up, friends praising your focus, others playfully teasing you. each word only fueled the fire in her chest. the image replayed in her mind, vivid and cruel, making her heart race. what had she allowed to slip while you studied with another girl—so effortlessly immersed in the comfort of your friendship while she was left behind?

minjeong felt a sudden jolt of irritation surge through her. the kind that ignited flames of a insane jealousy. the realization that you were spending time with someone else, not just anyone, but with someone who was so visibly present in your life. someone who had now become a part of this moment you were sharing without her. it felt like betrayal—the photos intended to capture your essence instead felt like reminders of her absence.

what did it mean that you were there, alone with her? had you been telling her the truth this whole time about studying together? or had you grown tired of her and her little quirks? it felt like betrayal, visceral and raw. how did her sister's extra study sessions become her own?

in a rise of frustration, she silenced her phone, the sound echoing like a decision reverberating through her thoughts. she tossed it onto the couch and stood there, still as a statue. the warmth of the living room seemed to suffocate her, and her mind whirled with conflicting emotions. without thinking, she grabbed her jacket from where it hung and impulsively marched out of her apartment, slamming the door behind her—her heart racing as the chill of the evening air surrounded her.

where are you going? the question echoed in her mind as she stepped onto the city streets, her breath misting before her in the winter chill. she didn’t know where to go; the cold wind cut through her, much like the realization of what she felt inside. she was filled with confusion, anger, and hurt, questions swirling around her like the fallen leaves.

what if you didn’t want her anymore? what if this was just the beginning of something spiraling out of control? the images of you studying with someone else, laughing and flirting, ignited feelings she hadn’t felt in a long time.

maybe she was overreacting? the right words swirled out of reach, tangled in the threads of her heart. she played back memories—each sweet moment together battling with the icy reality of this new picture, this betrayal. she questioned every second they had spent together, every revelation she had quietly harbored about her feelings for you. you—who were supposed to be her source of happiness, now felt like a threat, a source of pain.

your walk back home is peaceful. the cold breeze of early winter kisses your face, sending tiny shivers down your spine. luckily, you have your coat on, its fabric a comforting barrier against the chill wrapping around the city.

the faint glow of street lamps illuminated the sidewalk, their lights flickering like distant stars against a darkening sky. the scent of fallen leaves mingles with the faint aroma of smoke from distant chimneys, creating a vivid tapestry of autumn giving way to winter. you found comfort in the rhythm of your footsteps, each echo resonating against the chill of the night air.

as you reached the entrance of the building where you lived, you noticed a profound silence enveloping the space. the usual sounds—the laughter of neighbors, the creaking of doors, the faint hum of life—are conspicuously absent.

normally, you would hear the hum of distant conversations, the clatter of heels on the tile floors, or the soft notes of music drifting from neighbors' open doors. but tonight, the only sound was the faint rustle of your coat as you shuffled inside.

a strange feeling settled over your shoulders, as if the air itself was holding its breath, the kind that prickles at the base of your neck, whispering that something isn't quite right and making you sense that something was amiss.

you pause for a moment, scanning the darkened hallway, but sigh and shake it off. it’s late, after all; perhaps everyone is tucked away, hibernating in their cozy nests.

you pressed the button for the elevator, the ding echoing through the stillness. as it ascended, an unsettling sense of unease crept in. you can’t even hear the faint sounds of other apartments—the muffled TV shows, the soft laughter, and the rhythmic background of city life. even the elevator seemed to hold its breath, devoid of the usual creaks and groans. you wondered if everyone around you had decided to vanish, leaving you as the sole inhabitant of this quiet realm.

the ascent felt slower than usual, the stillness heightened by the lack of familiar sounds. the soft whir of the machinery felt almost alien in this quiet atmosphere. just when you start to feel anxious, the elevator dings, announcing your arrival at your floor, but you feel unnerved, looking forward to the ordinary chaos of your apartment.

stepping out onto your floor, you adjusted your scarf and made your way down the hallway. rummaging through your bag for your keys, your thoughts wandered to what you’d studied at ryujin’s place earlier. it had been a late session, fueled by coffee and late-night snacks, and a part of you regretted not sending a text to let Minjeong know.

just as you were about to lose yourself in that thought, you felt a sudden grip on your wrist. startled, your heart raced as the hallway light flickered on, illuminating the figure of minjeong standing there, her expression a mix of concern and frustration.

“where have you been?” minjeong’s voice pierced the silence, echoing off the walls. her expression was layered with concern and something deeper—something that sent a shiver down your spine. in an instant, the hallway light flickered on, casting a warm glow that seemed almost foreign amidst the encroaching shadows.

you turned, wide-eyed, the knot in your stomach tightening. “minjeong? what are you doing here? it’s late.”

she narrowed her eyes, and the tension in the air thickened. “i could ask you the same thing. why were you out so late?”

you took a breath, felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through you. “i told you i would use this weekend to prepare for my exam, remember? ryujin offered to help me study.” you explained, exasperated. “i forgot to tell you that i was going to her house to study, i’m sorry. but we had a big exam coming up.” you could feel the frustration bubbling beneath your skin, but you tried to keep your voice calm.

minjeong’s frown deepened, her arms crossing over her chest. you could see the gears of her mind shifting, grappling with what you’d just said. yes, she knew you were with ryujin, but verbalizing it seemed to ignite something within her, bringing out the demon of jealousy.

“just studying?” she pressed, her tone laced with skepticism. “how late were you planning on staying?”

you opened your mouth to respond, but she wasn’t finished. “you could’ve at least texted me, you know. i was worried!”

you raised your hands in a gesture of surrender, trying to keep your voice even. “i’m really sorry; i lost track of time. but you know ryujin is just a friend. we were going over notes, that’s all!”

her voice trailed off, eyes narrowing as jealousy crept into her words. “you’re always with her.”

“it’s just study stuff, minjeong!” you insisted, somewhat defensively. “you know you’re the one i care about.”

her fingers dug into your wrist as she leaned closer, her face betraying a tempest of emotions. “i can’t help it! i just— i don’t like this feeling!”

“feeling what?” you replied, bewildered. the tension crackling between you was palpable, each word finding its mark like arrows in a target as you both circled each other like wary opponents. “i’ll always choose you, minjeong. i just really needed to study.”

huffily, she crosses her arms, her fingers pressing her coat into her skin as if it were a shield. “it’s not about studying! it’s about you being inconsiderate. you could’ve called,” she huffs dramatically.

you feel a wave of frustration surge through you, but you brace yourself against it. “minjeong, you didn’t have to worry. i’m safe, and besides, i didn’t realize it had gotten so late.” your attempt at reason is met with a silence that hangs heavy in the air, tension crackling between you like static.

“safe?” she scoffs incredulously, her eyes narrowing. “you’re out with some girl at her place! i don’t want to sound controlling, but why would you put yourself in that situation without telling me? you could at least consider my feelings.”

“minjeong…” you feel the energy drain from your voice. the conversation is taking an unexpected turn. she knows you well enough to trust you, doesn’t she? you reach out to touch her arm, but she flinches away, retreating into her own anxieties.

“just let me into the apartment,” you plead, desperate to talk this out in private. something inside you hopes that they won’t spiral further into an explosive confession of jealousy and insecurities.

yet she shakes her head resolutely. “not until you explain why i should trust you when you’re out with another girl,” she insists, the fight in her voice wavering but ultimately holding firm.

after much hesitation, you manage to soothe the atmosphere. “i have no feelings for ryujin. our relationship is just a friendship. you're the one i love.”

eventually, after tired back-and-forth, she mutters, “... fine. i’m sorry for overreacting, but i just can’t help worrying… it’s not like anyone really talks to me about these things.” her voice softens, and you recognize that vulnerability; she’s slipping into her victim role again.

you try holding her gaze, searching for the truth behind her words. “it’s okay; i get it. just try to trust me a little more, alright?”

ninjeong smiles hesitantly, but the shadows of her doubts linger in her eyes like a storm cloud threatening to break. you unlock the door and let her into your apartment, unsure of what the night will unfold. the warmth of the living space is inviting, but the tension of the moment casts a longer shadow than you anticipated.

unbeknownst to you, this moment was just the beginning of something that had rooted itself deep in your relationship with minjeong—a well-meaning storm, brewed from jealousy and care, that would spiral and churn in ways neither of you could predict. as she brushes past you into the living room, you reluctantly realize what lies ahead may be more challenging than you’d hoped for.

the argument felt small at first, a mere bump in the road of your otherwise blissful relationship with minjeong. but as the days wore on, it became apparent that the little fight had unlocked something within her, something dark and volatile. the initial infraction—her jealousy over a casual conversation you had with a mutual friend—had spiraled into an endless cycle of blame and resentment.

you still recall the way her eyes had narrowed as she listened, her lips pressed into a tight line. that soft laugh you loved so much had been replaced by a chilling silence. what used to be playfully teasing turned into a gaze that bore down on you, probing, analyzing, judging; it felt like the weight of her disappointment was crushing your chest. once sweet and affectionate, she transformed into someone you hardly recognized—her demeanor twisted, like a pretty piece of art slowly warping into a grotesque figure and you wondered if you even recognized the girl you had fallen in love with.

you found it hard to breathe the first time she turned that silence on you after the argument. sitting across from each other at a cafe, the usual warmth in her gaze had vanished, replaced by an unsettling intensity. you looked everywhere but into her eyes, tracing patterns in the wooden table with your fingers. you could feel her stare, piercing and relentless.

“do you think she likes you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but laced with an edge that made your stomach churn.

“who?” you notice that minjeong's gaze is no longer meeting yours, but is directed elsewhere across the room. you follow her gaze, and you understand what she means; a few tables away is your friend yizhuo, having breakfast and chatting with a friend of hers.

you exhaled slowly, hoping calm would drown the anxiety rising in your chest.

“don’t play coy,” she snapped, her voice suddenly sharp. “you know exactly who i’m talking about. is it really that hard to be honest with me?”

the argument blossomed, each word a petal of bitterness, eventually curling into a thorny reality. you didn’t understand where all this jealousy came from, nor did you grasp why her feelings conveyed so much potency. minjeong used to be the gentle spirit, the one who found beauty in everything—even in the world of people. now, she was the tempest, and you were ensnared within it.

but that wasn’t the end; it was merely the first act in an ongoing tragedy. the discussions didn’t stop. they became a staple of your daily life, an unwanted rhythm that resonated through your days. one friday night, a group of friends decided to gather at a local bar. laughter echoed through the walls, familiar warmth wrapped around you like an old blanket, but not for minjeong.

"are you even listening to me?" she snapped one evening during the dinner with her friends, her voice slicing through the laughter surrounding you like a knife. you had been chatting and catching up with your friends, oblivious to the thundercloud brewing in her mind.

"of course, i am," you replied earnestly, but the damage was done. the disapproval etched across her face was enough to ruin the mood. moments later, she dragged you outside under the pretense of needing air, her grip on your arm like steel.

"what's wrong with you? you've been ignoring me ever since we got here.” she demanded, her voice low but frigid.

you sighed, your heart racing. "it was just a conversation. i didn't mean to upset you."

"you should know better," she hissed, her eyes flashing. “you and your friends always do this. you want to hurt me, don't you?”

the phrase was confusing; what in the world made her think you would ever want to hurt her? yet every rational thought fell away, and you found yourself backpedaling, desperate to soothe the storm brewing within her.

“minjeong, please. i value you and our time together. you know that,” you pleaded.

she just gives you one last look, walking back into the bar, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

you should have known she wouldn’t be willing to play nice. midway through the first round of drinks, you saw it—the familiar grimace twisting her features as she watched you engage in conversation with jimin, a longtime friend. you felt minjeong’s eyes digging into you like daggers, even as a lighthearted joke made jimin laugh. the sweet sound cut you off—no more jokes, no more laughter. as the night progressed and the alcohol flowed, minjeong's attitude simmered, eventually boiling over.

“can we leave?” she demanded, standing abruptly. Ignoring the pile of half-finished drinks and clinking glasses, she grabbed your wrist, her grip hard enough to bruise. you glanced around, trying to gauge the group's reactions, but most were busy enjoying the night. you caught jimin's concerned look—a silent plea for you to stay, but minjeong wouldn’t hear it.

“minjeong, can we just relax for a moment?” you attempted to reason with her, but the storm was too loud, and the chaos was all-consuming.

“no!” she yelled, the intensity of it drawing eyes toward your table. your heart sank; a familiar humiliation washed over you. together, you walked out into the harsh night, the cool air doing little to calm your rising anxiety.

“what the hell was that about?” you asked, your voice strained.

“why were you flirting with her? you were practically hanging off her every word!” minjeong's dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with an unhinged fury. it terrified you. ot wasn't the minjeong you fell in love with, but rather a version twisted by insecurities you couldn’t massage away.

“i wasn’t flirting!” you insisted. “you’re being unreasonable. everybody was just having fun!”

“fun for you, maybe,” she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “i suppose it’s fun to watch you toy with someone else’s feelings.”

each syllable that slipped from her lips cut deeper than the last, practically shredding at your shared history. you tried to calm her down, stammering words of reassurance, but her only response was a silence so deafening it echoed.

from that point on, things escalated to new heights, a spiraling mess of fights that felt more reminiscent of a battle than the love you had once shared. just a few days later, at a small diner down the street, the situation hit a new low. as the waitress placed the tray on the table, you turned just in time to see her chuckling at something, probably because she thought it was adorable how you misread the name of your coffee when ordering earlier—a routine occurrence that had never bothered minjeong before. perhaps it was the way you returned the smile, or the lingering moment that stretched too long, but something snapped inside her.

the laughter was innocent; the exchange friendly. yet, to minjeong, it was tantamount to treachery.

“let’s go,” she said suddenly, her voice flat.

“what? but we just sat down!” you exclaimed, confusion mixing with exasperation. you detected the faintest tremble in her lips, a prelude to a full-blown tantrum.

“... did you say "but"? seriously?” she questioned, fury painting her voice. you barely had a chance to register the words before minjeong swept her arm across the table, sending the coffee cup crashing to the floor, splattering the waitress and staining the ground with bitterness.

“i’m so sorry!” you blurted, mortification flooding through you as you scrambled to your feet. the waitress stood stunned, and in that moment, your heart shattered into pieces. you apologized repeatedly while trying to help clean the mess, feeling Minjeong’s simmering rage heat the air around you.

“let’s just go,” she demanded, her eyes burning with fury as if challenging you to argue. but deep down, you were terrified of what she might do next.

she stormed out, leaving you behind to pay for a meal that hadn’t touched your lips but felt heavier than any weight you had ever lifted. you left a generous tip, hoping to at least make amends for minjeong’s volatile behavior, but shame mixed with the taste of your muffled indignation as you left the café.

as you stepped out into the chilly evening air, the weight of it all crashed down on you. you briefly glanced back into the diner to catch a glimpse of minjeong. she stood there, a silhouette against the light, arms crossed, focused on something entirely beyond you. the realization crashed into you like a swift wave—you were lost in a relationship that had morphed into something toxic, a cycle of blame, punishment, and endless misunderstanding.

days of fighting would follow, each one leaving you increasingly drained. you learned to navigate carefully around her feelings, tiptoeing through conversations, wrestling with the fear of provoking another outburst. apologizing became a daily ritual, but it was a fool’s game, as though you were playing chess with a master who already knew all your moves.

nothing you did seemed to satisfy her, and every time you tried to stand your ground, she would employ that give-and-take tactic, leaving you scrambling to retrieve whatever ounce of affection you could salvage.

"you never understand what i need from you!" she'd cry, casting you a withering glare designed to pierce your heart.

you started dreading the moments you once cherished: evenings spent binge-watching shows, the casual strolls in the park, the intimate whispers shared in candle-lit corners of your favorite café. they all became tainted by her increasing paranoia and fury. in those moments, you didn’t catch a glimpse of the girl you fell for; instead, you stared back at a stranger who seemed to lose herself deeper in a well of insecurity with each fight.

what could you say to her to bridge the widening chasm? you wondered quietly if calling her out would work. but it always ended the same.

even in the stillness of your home, you could feel the shadows of her disappointment lurking. sometimes, as you lay in bed, you swore you could hear their whispers, taunting you to spur another confrontation. a ghost of the life you’d built together haunted your dreams, resurfacing in disorienting fragments where laughter hid behind walls built from distrust and rage.

to think, this all started with a simple argument. you sometimes daydreamed of how different your life could be without this turmoil, wondering nervously what life would look like if you weren't continuously tiptoeing around the storm that now defined your relationship with minjeong.

but in the end, naive hope lingered, refusing to extinguish despite the tempest that raged around you. you wanted to believe that one day, she would look at you with warmth restored, rather than that silent judgment that twisted her from within. you held on—because even through the tumult and the strife, there were threads of love that still remained, fragile and uncertain as they wove your lives together, if just for the moment.

the engine hums softly, a white noise glazed over with tension, as you sit in the passenger seat of minjeong’s car. the world outside the window is an endless parade of trees, stretching far enough to feel infinite, but you can’t look away from the gnawing uncertainty that festers in your chest. the conversation that should have been had weeks ago hovers between you, palpable and toxic. as the cityscape fades into desolation, the weight of your relationship stretches thin, hanging by a thread.

you take a deep breath, your chest constricting as you prepare yourself for what you know must be said. conversations about love and loss echo in your mind, gnawing at your resolve. when minjeong’s hand rests on your thigh, a gesture once sweet and comforting, it now feels nearly suffocating. the warmth dissipates under the coolness of your apprehension.

“minjeong, can we talk?” you finally utter, your voice catching slightly in your throat, sounding smaller than you intended.

“what’s up?” she replies, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, though her grip tightens around the wheel.

you hesitate, glancing out the side window at the rushing landscape, the deep green blurring past. “it’s just… i don’t feel that spark anymore,” you say, the words feeling like stones tumbling down a cliff. instantly, the air thickens with disbelief, and you can’t bear to meet her eyes, now glinting with uncertainty in the rearview mirror.

“what do you mean you don’t feel the spark?” she questions with an edge of panic, her tone shifting from casual to razor-sharp, slicing through the tension thickening in the car.

the argument spirals from there, each of you grappling for the upper hand, your voices rising dangerously. you can barely process the words spilling from your mouth as you try to articulate your truth. her eyes flicker with hurt and rage, and you can almost feel the hair on your arms standing on end, bristling under the weight of her indignation.

“there’s something fundamentally broken between us, minjeong! i don’t know who we are anymore!” you’re shouting now, and a rush of adrenaline floods your body.

“i can’t believe you think this is all my fault!” she fires back, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. the car swerves slightly, and you dig your heels into the ground, a jolt of panic coursing through you as the pavement blurs into a double line.

“just focus on driving!” you shout, but it’s too late. you hear her breath hitch, the silence that follows layered thick with unshed tears and suppressed rage. “minjeong, please—”

suddenly, without warning, she jerks the wheel to the side, bringing the car to a sudden stop on the desolate roadside. dust swirls around in the golden glow of late afternoon, the world stilled around you, as if holding its breath along with you.

“what did you just say?” she repeats, her voice trembling with disbelief. her expression morphs, the initial hurt twisting into something darker, and even more frightening.

the air thickens, and you realize you’ve stepped too far. you don’t even recognize the fury in her eyes as she unbuckles her seatbelt and throws the door open, storming out into the open air. your heart races as her figure becomes small against the vastness of the road.

“minjeong, wait!” you call after her, moving to open your own door, only to find you’re locked inside. panic sets in as the automatic locks click ominously, sealing you in with your spiraling thoughts. you pound your fists against the window, frustration clawing at you.

“minjeong!” you shout, trying to wrangle her attention, your voice quaking. she stumbles into your peripheral vision, her back toward you, shoulders taut. then, in an instant, she disappears. heart pounding, you swivel around, confusion spilling into fear.

that’s when you see it. the unmistakable sheen of liquid splattering against the windshield, an eerie reflection of your horror mirrored in the glass. the smell is pungent, and your heart drops as you grasp what is happening.

“minjeong, don’t!” you scream, desperation clawing at your throat, but she doesn't seem to hear you. she is lost to whatever abyss has consumed her; the girl you once knew has vanished.

the gasoline coats the car, pooling in strange little rivulets that trace the car’s contours as minjeong stands in front of you, lost in a trance. a match flickers in her fingers, its flame dancing dangerously close to your cloud of panic. she holds it delicately, her expression unreadable—caught between rage and an eerie calm.

“watch,” she whispers, her voice almost saccharine, but there’s an undertone that sends chills racing through you. “this will bring the spark back, i promise.”

in one quick motion, she tosses the match into the pool of gasoline. time slows; the world compresses into a singular moment of fate sealing itself.

your heart pounds against your ribs as the flames erupt, turning the world outside into a hellish kaleidoscope of oranges and reds. minjeong’s eyes glimmer with a wildness, a furious passion that you had long thought was reserved for love. it was intoxicating, but now it feels more like poison. the air around you thickens with fumes, panic rising in your throat as you grasp the reality of your situation. she’s gone off the deep end, and you’re trapped inside her fiery cage.

you slam on the windows with both fists, the sound muffled and desperate. “minjeong! open the door!” your voice is panicked, twisting into a shout that echoes through the confines of the vehicle. at first, she appears unfazed, a haunting smirk dancing on her lips. the atmosphere is electric—dangerous and exhilarating—yet your thoughts betray you, reminding you of the dull ache that has settled between you like an invisible rift.

your heart races as the flames erupt, engulfing the car and devouring the serenity that had once swirled between you and minjeong. the acrid scent of smoke fills the small space, mingling with the gasoline that blankets every surface. you pound on the glass, your fists an echo of disbelief and desperation, but minjeong just stares at you, a wild light in her eyes—a far cry from the sweet girl you once held in your arms.

as the flames lick at the trunk and crawl toward the driver’s seat, the heat creeps in, threatening to suffocate you. but more than the heat, it is the sight of her, standing there like a goddess of vengeance, that haunts your mind. where did the girl you love go? the girl who would curl up on the couch with you, giggling at inside jokes, the one who held your hand tightly on late nights?

“minjeong! stop!” your voice is hoarse, but the urgency rings clear. fear gnaws at you, and instinct pushes you to escape. you claw at the doors, your fingers dancing over the locks, but they don't budge. locked. the word loops in your mind, almost too much to bear.

she takes a step back, hitting the pause button on the chaos she has ignited. with trembling hands, you watch her, searching for a glimmer of recognition in her features, something that would remind you of the girl who laughed at your silly jokes and filled your weekends with warmth. Instead, you see a stranger, one who stands poised at the edge of insanity, her smile a grotesque mask on her face.

“did you really think you could just push me aside so easily?” she sneers, the smile twisting into something ugly. “you think you can just extinguish what we had—what i feel?”

you open your mouth to respond, but your breath catches as the fire flickers and dances, threatening to reach through the windshield. the world outside is muted now, as though the encroaching flames siphon away all sound. “minjeong, i care about you! i didn’t mean it like that!” you lean forward, the moisture in your eyes blurring the edges of her silhouette.

“care about me?” she echoes mockingly, the words dripping like venom. “it’s too late for that!” Her laughter rings hollow, shrill against the ominous crackling of fire.

and suddenly, she lunges forward, banging on the glass with the same frantic fervor that fills your chest. “you don’t see it, do you? this is the spark! you killed it! you have no idea what you’ve lost!”

hot tears mingle with the smoke that begins to creep in. panic swells; you lean back against the seat, the metal frame hot against your skin. “please, minjeong! we can talk about this! We can fix it!”

but the light in her eyes dims further, replaced by an overlay of anguish. “fix it?” she whispers, so soft it barely pierces the roar of the flames. “you think you can put a band-aid on this? you’ve already broken what we had. you’ve turned your back on me.”

in that moment, it’s clear that every moment together, every late night and laughter shared, has unraveled into nothingness. you remember the smiles, the moments of tenderness, the nights spent plotting futures together. but now, those echoes fade into oblivion, shattered by this haunting betrayal you never intended.

as the flames crack and wax, throwing shadows across her glassy visage, you strain against the seatbelt, desperate, panicking at the thought of losing her—losing everything you once held dear. “im sorry!” an apology that feels paltry escapes your lips, barely serving to bridge the chasm that has formed between you.

and with a strength you couldn’t comprehend, she tears down the remainder of the emotional barriers between sanity and chaos. as you edge closer, weighed down by the fear that wraps around your throat like a vice, she crumbles. the match she holds wavers, and you catch a glimpse of your minjeong again—a fleeting shadow, a flashing whisper of the girl who loved you fiercely.

you can’t let her go back to this. “listen to me, please! i never wanted to hurt you! i—”

you try to think of ways to escape, but the navy blue interior surrounds you like the jaws of a beast, each lock holding you in place as if the car itself is complicit in this tragedy. “stop this, please!” you scream, voice breaking on the last word. “i didn’t mean it like that! we can talk!”

her gaze flickers, a brief moment of uncertainty flashing in her eyes. it almost seems she is weighing her options, wondering if the anger she feels is worth the girl standing inside the car. you find yourself holding your breath.

but it’s too late. the flame dances gracefully from her fingertips, and she lets it go, a careless act that sends shockwaves of fear through you. time slows as you watch it fall, the world narrowing to the small, flickering flame that lands on the gasoline-soaked surface of the car. it ignites with an eager roar, consuming the air around you in an instant.

you recoil, bracing yourself against the back of the seat as the fire spreads, heat prickling your skin. the stench of burning gasoline fills your lungs, and the choking smoke twists and turns, curling toward you like a dark hand that wants to pull you into its depths.

“why?” you gasp, your voice a thin wisp of disbelief. is this truly the person you once adored, the one you held under the glow of a streetlight and whispered your dreams to? as the flames grow taller, licking hungrily at the roof, you realize just how far you have drifted from the joyous heights of your early love.

“why?” she mimics, voice eerily calm amidst the chaos of the roaring flames. “because you wanted the spark? you’ve taken everything! sweet moments, tender touches—they were all because of your idea of love! this is what it looks like when you strip away the façade!”

y ou take a deep breath and lean forward, desperate to connect with her again, to reach through the haze of madness and remind her of all that was good between you. “minjeong, please! this isn’t you! let’s just talk—”

your words hang suspended in the air, but she remains unmoved. you can see the resolve etched into her features, a tragic conviction that seems to make her larger than life even in the midst of this crisis. you brace for the worst, your heart thundering in your chest. her face, once the definition of warmth, is now a tempest of rage, pain, and heartbreak.

the very essence of your relationship burns behind her eyes, and there, in that harrowing moment, you fear you’re witnessing the end of everything you’d built together. “you wanted the spark, didn't you?” she shouts, voice cracking under pressure, blending anger and sorrow. “you think you’re just going to walk away from this? no more empty promises!”

you feel it then—the crushing weight of reality crashing down on you. you are two people who have lost sight of why you fell in love in the first place. you have become strangers anchored by memories, and it hurts just as much to acknowledge it as it does to see the fire grow around you.

“minjeong, please!” your eyes burn from the smoke, but there’s a flicker of something within you—an ember of hope. “we can fix this! i didn’t mean to hurt you! i still care about you, i—”

but all she hears is betrayal wrapped in weakness. “you care?” she laughs bitterly, wiping away a tear that trails down her cheek, mingling with the sweat of her panic. “is this what caring looks like?”

moments stretch on as you process her anguish; the flames haven’t just engulfed the vehicle, but they’re consuming the last bits of clarity in the conversation. she takes a step back from the car, eyes wide, the wildness giving way to uncertainty.

desperation drives you as you shout, “minjeong! open the door! we can talk!” you slam your palm against the windows, creating a rhythmic pattern of thuds, shouts blending into chaos.

she watches you through the flames now, the mad gleam returning to her eyes. “talk? do you really think we can talk? this is us now! this is what we were!” the flames illuminate her, making her look almost otherworldly, distorting the very features you once adored.

she watches you, and for a flicker of eternity, it feels like she might relent. the fire licks at the edges of the foam seats, and you can see the panic setting in her eyes, too, now. “you think it’s over?” minjeong asks, her voice barely rising above the roar of the heat. “it’s just beginning!”

she gives you one last look, then turns on her heel, walking away from the car, away from you, running away from the chaos she started.

and in that heartbeat, the flicker from her gaze changes—it morphs into a realization. the spark of love flares within her eyes, a tiny flame that could either save you or plunge you into darkness. what will it be, you wonder?

but will it reach you before the flames burn everything to ash? time is slipping, and you’re left battling a love you once cherished, now clawing at it with words that barely feel like enough.

as the heat intensifies and the situation ticks dangerously close to a breaking point, you wonder if love, once passionate, can be rekindled, or if it is destined to blaze out in a storm of fury and flames. would it matter if you escape if the love is lost in the inferno?

#minjeong #minjeong x fem reader #minjeong x reader #kim minjeong #kim minjeong x fem reader #kim minjeong x reader #winter #winter x fem reader #winter x reader #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #kpop x fem reader #kpop x reader

403 notes · View notes

joelsrose · 2 months ago

Text

First Date: Part II

Part 1

Next part

The room was quiet, but your heart refused to follow suit, pounding wildly against your ribs as Joel’s words played over and over in your head. The faint hum of alcohol lingered in your veins, leaving your senses dulled but your emotions sharp. Heat crept up your neck and across your face, a blush you couldn’t will away. Your chest ached, full and warm, caught somewhere between elation and frustration.

Not like this.

Joel Miller wanted to kiss you. The thought spun in your mind like a cyclone, disorienting and infuriating all at once. Why was he so impossible to understand? Why couldn’t he just come out and say what he meant instead of leaving you to sift through his maddening half-truths and clumsy, drunken confessions? All he ever did was complicate things.

He was infuriating, stubborn, and guarded to a fault—a wall of iron wrapped in a storm cloud. And yet, despite all of it, you felt yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It didn’t make any sense. Why him, of all people? Had the years of chaos and heartbreak warped you so completely that you’d developed some ridiculous weakness for brooding older men with a penchant for gruffness and unspoken truths?

You huffed into the darkness, pressing your palms against your flushed cheeks, but the heat didn’t dissipate. Against your will, your thoughts drifted back to him, to his voice low and gravelly, saying things he couldn’t seem to admit in the sober light of day. Was he awake now, thinking about you? Or had he already pushed it all aside, boxed it up and locked it away in whatever cavern he stored the pieces of himself he refused to share?

The ache in your chest swelled, pushing against the growing exhaustion that tugged at you. You curled onto your side, pulling the blanket closer, hoping to smother the whirlwind of emotions that refused to quiet down.

And just as the edges of sleep began to blur your thoughts, you felt it—a phantom sensation born of longing and bittersweet dreams. The imagined press of Joel’s lips against yours, warm and deliberate, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made your heart stutter even as slumber finally claimed you.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You rode in silence behind Joel, the steady rhythm of your horse beneath you almost lulling you into a trance. The biting cold nipped at your cheeks, but your thoughts kept drifting to the man ahead of you. His broad frame cut an imposing silhouette against the pale horizon, his posture as tall and rigid as ever. Every movement was deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning the terrain, as if the weight of the entire world rested squarely on his shoulders.

This morning, he had greeted you with a curt nod and a gruff “Morning.” The simple acknowledgment had caught you off guard. After the tension of your last conversation, you half-expected him to retreat into one of his impenetrable silences. But that was Joel Miller—always catching you off guard, always surprising you right when you thought you finally had him figured out.

Patrol today was supposed to be a routine supply check at one of the safe houses, but something felt off. Your admittedly poor sense of direction had its limits, and even you could tell that you’d been heading the wrong way for at least an hour.

You hesitated, your eyes fixed on Joel’s broad back as he rode ahead. Joel wasn’t exactly known for his love of small talk, and the idea of breaking the silence felt like stepping into dangerous territory. But the quiet was stretching too thin, and curiosity, paired with a healthy dose of boredom, finally got the better of you.

“Joel,” you called out, your voice cutting through the crisp air, “where are we going? The safe house is the other way.” Your tone was casual enough, but it carried an undercurrent of irritation you couldn’t quite hide.

He didn’t turn, his voice gruff and matter-of-fact. “Already checked the supplies this morning.”

“What?” you blurted, reining your horse to a halt. Your frustration flared as the biting cold nipped at your cheeks, your irritation rising at the realization. “What the hell are we doing out here, then?”

You couldn’t keep the exasperation out of your voice, the long ride through freezing winds now feeling even more unnecessary. Your breath puffed in front of you as you waited for an answer, your fingers tightening on the reins.

Joel finally stopped his horse, turning in the saddle to face you, his expression unreadable as always. “We’re goin’ somewhere they can’t hear us,” he said simply, his tone as dry as the winter air.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your frustration bubbling over. “The hell does that mean?” you shot back, your breath puffing out in an irritated cloud.

Joel exhaled, rubbing a gloved hand over his face as if summoning patience. “Jesus,” he muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Don’t sound so scared. Not gonna murder you.”

Your eyes widened for a moment, caught completely off guard. Then it hit you—Joel Miller had just told a joke. A joke. In his own deadpanned, gruff way, Joel Miller was trying to lighten the mood, and it left you momentarily speechless.

“What do you mean, ‘somewhere they can’t hear us?’” you pressed, suspicion still clear in your voice.

“Less chance of runnin’ into infected or raiders out here,” Joel replied, his tone measured, his focus already shifting back to the path ahead.

You frowned, still not satisfied. “Okay… so?”

“So we can practice,” he said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Practice what?” you groaned, exasperation creeping into your voice as you rolled your eyes. “Do you ever speak in full sentences, or is this just a special talent of yours?”

Joel’s eyebrows arched slightly at your tone, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He wasn’t used to this—your voice sharp, laced with teasing. Around Maria and Tommy? Sure. But with him? You’d always seemed a little more reserved, a little hesitant.

For a moment, something softened in his expression, his guarded demeanor cracking just enough for the faintest twitch of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips. It was fleeting, though—gone before you could catch it, as if he’d forced it away before it betrayed him.

“Gonna practice your shootin’,” he said, his voice steady, with just the faintest edge of amusement, before turning his focus back to the trail.

You found your gaze lingering on his profile, tracing the hard line of his jaw and the subtle furrow of his brow, hoping it would somehow reveal his truth. Joel Miller was a complete enigma, a puzzle you couldn’t seem to piece together no matter how many hours you spent in his company.

This was the man who rarely spared more than a fleeting glance at anyone unless it was absolutely necessary, the man who seemed to prefer the chaos of infected over the mundane discomfort of small talk. And yet here he was, willingly going out of his way, taking you out to practice shooting. In the middle of nowhere. Far from prying eyes and unnecessary distractions.

The thought crept into your mind before you could stop it, your chest tightening as you turned it over. Was there a chance—however small—that Joel Miller felt something for you too?

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? You shook your head slightly, willing the thought to dissipate, but it clung to you, stubborn and insistent. No matter how much you tried to brush it aside, the possibility lingered—warm and persistent, like an ember nestled deep in your chest, refusing to fade no matter how much you tried to snuff it out.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“All right,” Joel said, his voice breaking through the crisp morning air as his eyes swept over the landscape ahead. The clearing was vast and open, framed by a dense thicket of trees whose bare branches swayed softly in the winter breeze. Frost coated the grass, glimmering faintly under the pale, overcast sky, and in the distance, a frozen creek carved its way through the land, its icy surface catching the weak light like fractured glass.

The air was still, carrying the sharp, earthy scent of winter, and the silence was almost unnerving in its completeness. No distant chatter, no shuffle of movement—just the sound of your breath mingling with the faint crunch of frost underfoot.

Joel was right. You were far from Jackson, far from the risks of infected or raiders. Here, in this quiet expanse of frozen solitude, it was just the two of you.

Joel swung his leg over his horse, dismounting with practiced ease. You followed suit, your boots crunching softly against the frost-laden ground as you landed. Without a word, Joel led the horses to a nearby tree with a thick, sturdy trunk, securing them with firm, deliberate knots.

You grabbed your pack and rifle, trailing behind him as he moved through the clearing. His eyes swept the area with a critical precision, his every movement purposeful, as though he’d already planned out exactly how this would go.

He stopped at a fallen log first, gripping it with both hands and dragging it into position with a grunt of effort. Crouching low, he pulled a tin can from his pack and set it carefully on top, his hands steady despite the biting chill in the air.

Next, he turned his attention to a dilapidated fencepost, its wood splintered and weathered, lining up a few bottles along its edge. The frosted glass caught the faint light filtering through the clouds, glinting like tiny beacons against the dull gray backdrop.

But Joel wasn’t finished. A rusted metal barrel leaned against a nearby tree, and he hauled it upright with a quiet determination, giving it a quick once-over before affixing a target to its side. Finally, he moved toward the creek, his boots crunching over frost and ice, lining up a series of rocks along the edge, spaced just enough to challenge your aim at a longer distance.

You watched it all with growing amusement, your eyebrow arching as Joel stepped back to survey his work. His expression remained all business, his lips pressed into a firm line, but the meticulous care he put into arranging each makeshift target was oddly endearing.

“Jesus,” you muttered, eyeing the array of makeshift targets scattered across the clearing. “How many of these are you hoping I actually hit?”

“All of ’em,” Joel replied without missing a beat, his tone steady and confident.

You raised an eyebrow at him, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous, Joel.”

“No, it ain’t,” he said, dead serious, his gaze unwavering as he adjusted his stance. “When we’re done here, you’ll be able to hit every single one.”

You let out a disbelieving huff, shaking your head. “You’re insane.”

“I meant what I said,” he continued, his voice low but firm, cutting through your doubts. “You’re not a bad shot—but you’re not confident.”

His words made you pause. He remembered saying that, back when he’d been drunk. Did that mean he remembered the other thing he’d said then?

Thinking about you.

Joel kept going, his tone calm but resolute. “Half of shootin’ is havin’ the aim,” he said, gesturing toward the rifle in your hands. “The other half is thinkin’ you can actually hit what you’re aiming for.”

“Okay,” you breathed, steadying yourself as you tightened your grip on the rifle.

Joel Miller believed you could hit every single one of these targets, so you better damn well try.

You glanced at him, his expression as steady as ever, his confidence in you unwavering. “Alright,” you said, your voice firming with determination. “Teach me.”

Joel gave a small nod, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stepped closer, his presence solid and grounding. “First,” he began, his voice calm but commanding, “your stance. You ain’t gonna hit anything if you’re all off-balance.”

Joel stepped closer, the sound of his boots crunching against the frost pulling your attention to him completely. The space between you felt impossibly small as he came to stand at your side, his dark eyes scanning you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” he said, his voice low and gruff, his tone laced with a quiet authority that sent a shiver down your spine. You adjusted your stance, glancing at him for approval, but his gaze lingered on you for a moment too long before he gave a slight nod.

“Good,” he murmured, stepping behind you. You felt the weight of him there, close enough that the warmth of his presence cut through the biting cold. “Grip the rifle like this.”

His hands reached out, rough and warm as they wrapped over yours, adjusting your grip with careful precision. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a pulse of heat through you that you couldn’t ignore.

“Relax,” he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that edge of restraint. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, grounding and firm. “You’re too stiff. Loosen up—ain’t gonna hit a thing if you’re all tense.”

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on his words and not the way his touch lingered, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder before he pulled back.

“Like this?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Joel leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Better. Now, line up your sights.”

The proximity was dizzying, the way his hand ghosted over your arm to guide you sending a jolt of awareness through you. You couldn’t help but feel the heat of him at your back, the roughness of his hand as it hovered, hesitant but deliberate.

“You’re tilting,” he murmured, his voice softer now but still gruff. His hand brushed your arm lightly as he adjusted your aim. “Not your body—just your eyes. Straight down the barrel.”

The tension crackled in the air between you, thick and electric. You tried to steady your breathing, but it was impossible with him this close, his focus entirely on you.

“Now,” Joel said, his voice almost a whisper, rough and unrestrained, “breathe in. Slow.”

You obeyed, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his words.

“Hold it,” he continued, his tone impossibly close, the timbre of it making your pulse race. “Squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull—squeeze.”

The rifle fired, the shot echoing through the clearing.

The can on the log wobbled but didn’t fall.

You groaned in frustration, your cheeks burning from the effort—and something else entirely.

Joel stepped back slightly, just enough to give you room to breathe, but not enough to break the tension. His lips pressed into a line, his eyes scanning you, calculating. “Do it again,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You frowned, glancing at him. “You make it sound so easy,” you muttered.

“Ain’t supposed to be easy,” he said, his voice lower, quieter. His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the air between you felt heavier. “But you’ll get there.”

He stepped behind you again, closer this time, his hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into position. “Focus,” he said, his voice rough and close. “You got this.”

This time, when you fired, the can flew off the log with a sharp clang.

A surprised laugh burst from your lips, and you turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. Joel’s eyes lingered on yours, the tension thick and charged, before he gave a small, approving nod.

“Told you,” he said, his voice gruff but softer.

The world seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in the stillness of the clearing.

Your chest tightened as you met his gaze, and for once, he didn’t look away.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The clearing had transformed into a battlefield of spent casings, the sharp tang of gunpowder mingling with the crisp evening air. You’d lost track of how many rounds you’d fired, how many times Joel’s gruff encouragements had pushed you to reload and try again.

The sun hung low now, spilling a watercolor of oranges and pinks across the sky, while shadows stretched like creeping fingers over the ground. The fading light tugged at the edges of your nerves, a reminder of how dangerous it was to linger, but Joel stood firm.

“You’re not leavin’ until you hit every single one,” he said, his voice steady and resolute, as if the world beyond this clearing didn’t exist.

Your gaze shifted to the last target—a battered can balanced precariously on the edge of a log, defiant in its refusal to fall. It mocked you in its stillness, the sole survivor of the carnage you’d unleashed.

Joel adjusted his stance beside you, his presence a steady anchor. “Alright, let’s go again,” he said, his tone as unwavering as ever, leaving no room for argument.

“Joel,” you groaned, the ache in your arms deepening as the rifle seemed to grow heavier with every passing second. “We’re gonna run out of bullets, I’m starving, and then—when we’re weak from hunger—werewolves are gonna eat us.”

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his brow knitting together in utter confusion. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You bit back a laugh, your shoulders shaking just slightly. “Sorry. I’m delirious. I told you—I’m hungry.”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t catch, though the faintest flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips. “Focus,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softer this time, like he was coaxing a skittish animal. “This is the last one—you can do it.”

You glanced at him, lifting an eyebrow in mock defiance. “And if I don’t?”

Joel’s eyes glinted, his expression unreadable as he shrugged, his tone deadpan. “Then I’ll leave you out here. Alone.”

Your jaw dropped, the words hanging in the air for a beat longer than they should have. “What?” you practically yelped, caught between indignation and disbelief.

He shrugged again, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into what could only be described as a smirk. It was maddeningly subtle but unmistakable, and for a moment, you just stared at him, thrown off by his uncharacteristic playfulness.

“Jesus, Joel,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at him, though the spark of humor in his gaze told you exactly how much truth there wasn’t in his empty threat.

“Alright,” you sighed dramatically, squaring up to the rifle.

Joel stepped behind you, his presence impossibly distracting, his warmth cutting through the cold like a flame. His hands settled on your waist, firm and steady, grounding you in a way that sent your heart into overdrive. The touch wasn’t intrusive, but it was deliberate, and it set every nerve in your body alight. He nudged your feet apart with his knee, his voice low and gravelly as he murmured, “Remember—feet apart.”

How in the world did he expect you to hit the target when he was this close? Your mind raced, your thoughts tangling into a mess of sensations—the press of his chest just shy of your back, the quiet strength in his hands, the way his breath ghosted over your ear. You bit your lip, terrified that if you said anything, your voice might betray just how much he was affecting you.

“Alright,” Joel said softly, his voice so close it made your stomach flip. “Now shoot.”

You forced yourself to exhale, a slow and steady release, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked against your shoulder, the shot ringing out across the clearing, and the can flew off the log with a sharp clang that echoed through the trees.

“I got it!” you yelped, spinning toward him, the thrill of victory bursting out of you. Without thinking, you hopped in place, your excitement bubbling over.

Joel clapped his hands together once, his grin breaking free like sunlight through storm clouds. It was rare, genuine, and so utterly Joel that it stole your breath. “Good girl,” he said, his voice warm, his tone low, the words landing squarely in your chest and sending heat rushing to your cheeks.

Your laughter spilled out, light and unrestrained, though the flush in your face betrayed how much those two simple words had affected you. “I can’t believe it,” you said, catching your breath. “I mean, you helped—like, a lot.”

“No,” Joel said firmly, his eyes locking with yours, the intensity in his gaze unwavering. “You did that.”

Something in the way he said it—earnest and steady—made your chest tighten, the words settling in a place deeper than just pride. For a moment, the world stilled, and it was just him, his eyes on yours, his presence steady and reassuring in a way that made it impossible to look away.

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, your lips curling into a shy smile. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word feeling heavier than it should.

“Alright, let’s go,” Joel said, turning toward the horses. But just before he mounted his, he glanced back at you, his voice low and teasing. “Before the werewolves come get us.”

You couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across your face as you laughed softly, shaking your head.

You smiled the entire ride back.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You loved movie nights at Jackson. They were your favorite day of the month—the one night where the weight of survival seemed to lift, where laughter and shared moments made the world feel just a little bit normal again. Joel knew this.

Over the past few weeks, Joel had learned more about you than he ever expected. You’d started opening up after that shooting lesson, your words spilling out during patrols while he listened, even if he didn’t always respond. He didn’t need to say much—he was paying attention, far more than you realized.

He tucked away the little details, storing them like they might matter someday: how much you loved coffee, the way you always gave your horse, Winnie, a soft pat before every ride, how your favorite food used to be sushi, even though you hadn’t had it in years. He noticed the things you missed, the faint wistfulness in your voice when you mentioned them. And he couldn’t help but notice the way your face lit up whenever you talked about movie nights—your favorite day of the month, you’d said, like it was the closest thing to normal life you had left.

That’s why Joel was sitting here, crammed into the overly warm and crowded community room, the hum of excited chatter filling the air. A few teenagers a couple of seats down were causing a ruckus, and Joel had already shot them a sharp glare, but he stayed. His jacket was draped over the seat next to him, keeping it empty despite the steady stream of people filtering in.

At one point, a woman—nudged forward by her giggling friends from another row—sauntered over, her intentions clear in the way she lingered near Joel’s side. She gestured toward the empty seat beside him, her tone light and suggestive as she asked if it was free.

Joel, oblivious to her flirtation and entirely disinterested, didn’t even bother to lift his head. “Seat’s taken,” he replied curtly, his voice flat and dismissive, his eyes never leaving the drink in his hand.

The woman hesitated, clearly caught off guard by his lack of acknowledgment, before retreating back to her friends, her cheeks tinged with embarrassment.

Joel didn’t seem to notice—or care.

Moments later, you walked in, your smile wide and contagious as your eyes swept across the crowded room. Movie night had always been your thing—something you loved, even if you usually came alone. You didn’t mind; the atmosphere, the chatter, and the shared excitement were enough.

But when your gaze landed on Joel, sitting stiffly amidst the chaos, your smile grew even wider. It was funny seeing him here, so out of his element, and yet undeniably him.

“Joel?” you said softly, your voice carrying just enough over the hum of the room as you wove through the crowd toward him. “What are you doing here?”

He feigned surprise, his tone casual, though the slight shift in his seat betrayed him. “Oh, you know… watchin’ the movie.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light and unguarded, tugging at something deep in his chest. Your eyes scanned the crowded room, narrowing as you searched for an empty seat. The hum of voices began to quiet as the lights dimmed, the projector humming to life.

“Well,” you whispered, “I should probably find a seat.” You started to turn, ready to slip away into the sea of people.

“Wait,” Joel said abruptly, his voice low but firm, cutting through the settling quiet.

A sharp shhh from someone nearby made his jaw clench, but he ignored it, reaching over to pull his jacket off the seat beside him.

“There’s a seat here,” he muttered, his tone gruff but leaving no room for debate.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, your gaze dropping to the now-empty seat. “Oh, I thought you were saving it…” you said, gesturing toward the jacket he’d just moved.

“No,” Joel replied quickly, a little too quickly, as he draped the jacket over his lap. “It’s yours. Sit.”

Your heart swelled, a soft warmth blooming in your chest as you slid into the seat beside him. Joel Miller saved you a seat. Here, of all places—a packed room buzzing with energy, in a place he’d never willingly set foot in before. It was almost unthinkable, and yet, there he was, his rugged frame taking up more space than the narrow chair could manage, his attention fixed stubbornly on the screen ahead.

The closeness felt different, a quiet charge humming between you that had nothing to do with the low whir of the projector kicking to life. You glanced sideways at Joel, catching the way his jaw was set tight, the muscles working under his skin as his hands gripped his jacket like it might steady him.

“Thanks,” you whispered, leaning in just enough that your words were meant for him alone.

He didn’t look at you, but the slight tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. His grip on the bottle in his hand loosened, and for a fleeting second, you could’ve sworn you saw the faintest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The movie flickered to life, its warm glow casting shifting shadows across the crowded room. You watched intently, the pictures dancing over your face, your quiet smile tugging at your lips as you lost yourself in the moment. Joel’s eyes, however, weren’t on the screen. In the subtlest way, he turned toward you, his gaze lingering a second too long, his breath hitching as he took you in.

You looked so happy, so at ease, and it struck him harder than he wanted to admit. It was a rare thing, seeing you like this, unguarded and content. And for reasons he didn’t dare explore, it hit him like a punch to the gut.

Joel’s leg started to bounce, an outlet for the restless energy he couldn’t seem to shake. His mind was far from the movie, far from the room entirely. Every nerve in his body was attuned to you—the warmth of you sitting so close, the faint scent of your shampoo, the soft sound of your breathing as you leaned slightly forward.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he allowed himself to relax, just a fraction. His knee brushed lightly against yours, his shoulder just barely grazing yours in the cramped space. He told himself it was the tight quarters, the lack of room—but deep down, he knew better.

You noticed immediately. The slight shift in his posture, the nervous bounce of his knee, the charged silence between you—it was impossible to miss. You bit the inside of your lip at the contact, a thrill coursing through you, though you barely moved. The tension was thick, a current humming between you, leaving the air heavy with unsaid things.

Joel might think he had you all figured out, but you knew him, too. He wasn’t watching the movie. His restless movements, the way his grip tightened on the bottle in his hand, the faint rigidity in his shoulders—it wasn’t frustration. It was nerves, raw and unspoken, and maybe more telling than anything he could’ve said.

In a moment of quiet boldness, you leaned into his shoulder, your movement so slight it could’ve been dismissed as accidental. But it wasn’t. Your weight pressed gently against him, testing the fragile boundary that seemed to hover between you. Feigning a yawn, you let your head tilt, coming to rest on his shoulder, your cheek brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

Joel froze. You felt it immediately—the sudden tension in his body, the way his breath caught for just a moment. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t shift or shrug you off. He stayed perfectly still, as though any movement might shatter whatever fragile thread had been strung between you.

His arms remained crossed, rigid beneath you, his posture brimming with restraint. And yet, he didn’t move.

He let you stay, let the weight of your head settle against him, as if it was something he couldn’t bring himself to deny. The warmth of your touch against his shoulder was subtle, but it felt monumental—like a quiet revelation neither of you were quite ready to speak aloud.

Your lips curled into the faintest smile as you closed your eyes, pretending to focus on the movie, though you were acutely aware of him. Of his tension, of his breathing, of the steady warmth radiating from him.

Joel shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours again. This time, it wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate—quietly, wordlessly saying, I’m still here.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you dared move.

The movie played on, its flickering images casting faint shadows, forgotten by you both.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

It was almost Christmas, and Jackson was doing its best to exude holiday cheer, even in a world irrevocably changed by the outbreak. It wasn’t extravagant or polished—how could it be?—but there was a warmth that spread through the town like an unspoken agreement to make the season a little brighter.

String lights, salvaged from who-knows-where, were hung along fences and rooftops, their soft glow casting a cozy light over the snow-covered streets. Some blinked unevenly, others stayed dark, but the effort was there, and it was enough to make the evenings feel a little more magical. Handmade decorations adorned the town—garlands of evergreen branches tied with bits of red cloth, paper snowflakes crafted from old books and newspapers, and ornaments fashioned from bottle caps and scraps of metal.

Music played faintly from the Tipsy Bison, where someone had rigged up an old record player. A collection of scratched vinyls—holiday classics from a bygone era—filled the air with songs that crackled and skipped, but still brought smiles to people’s faces.

You loved Christmas—everything about it. The way it seemed to pull people closer, the way the world seemed to glow a little brighter under the soft, warm lights. You thought back to the days before the outbreak, when you’d pile into the car with your family and drive through neighborhoods, marveling at the twinkling displays in windows and yards.

And the trees—the trees. You remembered how, every year, your family would spend hours decorating your own. There’d be laughter, arguments over which ornaments went where, and the familiar scent of pine filling the room. You’d string the lights carefully, drape the garlands just so, and stand back to admire your work, always ending the night with hot chocolate by its soft glow.

That was what you missed most: a Christmas tree. Your own tree. Something to decorate, to make your house feel like a home again, even just for a moment. You’d tried to make do—stringing up lights you’d scavenged, hanging the odd decoration here or there—but it wasn’t the same. You wanted the ritual, the tradition, the warmth it brought.

You sighed, staring at the bare corner of your living room, imagining how it would look with a tree standing there, soft lights casting their glow on the walls. It wasn’t much to ask for, was it? Just a piece of the life you used to have.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

As you and Joel rode back to Jackson after another long patrol, the crisp winter air bit at your cheeks, the fading daylight painting the snow in hues of soft lavender and blue. The silence stretched between you, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of hooves against the frozen ground. Without thinking, you began humming softly, the tune slipping from your lips to fill the quiet.

“Bright time, it’s the right time, to rock the night away,” you sang under your breath, the words light and airy, carried on the cold breeze. The melody danced between the steady sounds of the horses, a small comfort against the stark winter stillness.

Joel turned toward you, one eyebrow quirking up in that familiar, skeptical way that always seemed to say more than words ever could.

“What?” you asked, grinning at the look on his face. “Don’t tell me you hate Christmas.”

“Didn’t say that,” he replied, his voice gruff as always, his gaze sliding back to the trail ahead like the topic was already dismissed.

“Okay, Grinch,” you shot back, snorting at your own joke.

Joel shook his head, but you caught it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, like he was fighting to suppress the smallest of smiles. It was fleeting, but it was enough to make your chest feel lighter, the warmth of it lingering far longer than it should.

You let the moment settle, your eyes drifting to the endless sea of trees ahead, their branches bowed under the weight of freshly fallen snow. The sight was stunning, the kind of quiet beauty that belonged on a postcard, but it gnawed at something deep inside you—a pang of longing for a life that felt worlds away.

The words escaped before you could reel them back. “I’d give anything to have a Christmas tree again. Just...decorate the hell out of it. Lights, ornaments, everything.”

Joel didn’t respond right away, but he turned his head just enough to let you know he was listening, his profile softened by the dusky light..

“It used to be my favorite thing,” you said, your voice quieter now, the edges of nostalgia softening your words. “Every year, my family and I would put up the tree together. It was chaos—arguing over where the ornaments went, trying to untangle the lights without strangling each other—but it was the best kind of chaos.” You paused, the weight of the memory settling over you, bittersweet and heavy.

Joel didn’t say anything, his silence stretching longer than you expected. You glanced over at him, suddenly self-conscious. Vulnerable. The thought crossed your mind that he might shrug off your rambling with one of his usual gruff remarks, but when your eyes met his, he wasn’t dismissive. He was watching you, his expression unreadable yet completely focused, like your words mattered more than you realized.

You cleared your throat, a nervous laugh bubbling up to fill the space. “What about you? Did you ever have any Christmas traditions?”

Joel exhaled deeply, the sound heavy and weighted, as if it carried a lifetime’s worth of memories with it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer, and a flicker of guilt sparked in your chest. Who were you to poke at a past he worked so hard to bury?

“Sorry,” you started, your voice faltering as you prepared to retreat. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head slightly. His tone was quieter now, less guarded. “It’s fine.”

The pause that followed felt like the calm before a storm, a moment suspended in fragile quiet. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying a softness you weren’t used to hearing from him. “Me and my daughter, Sarah…”

Your breath caught, the way he said her name hitting you like a punch to the chest. There was something in his voice—a warmth and sorrow so deeply intertwined that it wrapped around your heart, pulling it tight.

“She used to love those gingerbread house kits,” Joel said, his voice quieter now, as if speaking the memory too loudly might shatter it. A faint, almost shy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, softening his features in a way you’d never seen before. “Always wanted to make the fanciest one—had these big ideas about balconies and turrets, like somethin’ outta a magazine. And every damn time…” He chuckled, low and warm, the sound tinged with affection. “It’d fall apart. Used to drive her nuts. But she’d just laugh it off, tell me it was all part of the plan, and start over.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth lifting without thought as the image came alive in your mind. A younger Joel, one free of the weight of the world, laughing with his daughter over collapsed gingerbread turrets. The thought was bittersweet, a glimpse of a man you’d never known but could almost picture—a father who loved without hesitation, whose laughter was full and unguarded, before loss had carved its mark into him.

“That’s a nice memory,” you said softly, careful not to speak too loud, afraid to disturb the fragile thread of openness stretching between you.

Joel didn’t reply right away. Instead, he adjusted the reins, his grip easing as his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—a quiet acknowledgment that, for once, he wasn’t carrying that memory alone.

For the rest of the ride, the silence between you felt different. It wasn’t heavy or awkward, but something warmer, like the quiet understanding of two people who knew what it was to hold on to pieces of a world that was gone.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You woke to the faint gray light of dawn seeping through the window, your body protesting the cold with an ache that had become all too familiar. Winter had a way of settling into your bones, amplified by too many restless nights. A long yawn escaped as you stretched, the motion tugging at sore muscles. You wiped the remnants of sleep from your eyes, shivering as your bare feet met the icy floor.

The house was frigid, the kind of cold that clung to everything, stubborn and unyielding. You pulled your coat on over your sleepwear, wrapping it tightly around yourself as you shuffled into the kitchen. The soft hum of the coffee maker broke the silence, the promise of warmth in your mug the only thing motivating you to stay upright.

Then you heard it—a muffled groan, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy being dragged just outside the door. Your movements stilled, the faint noise enough to send a flicker of unease skittering up your spine. Frowning, you tilted your head, straining to catch the sound again.

Another grunt. Low, frustrated, and definitely close. Your heart leapt, the stillness of the morning amplifying your sudden wariness. What the hell? Your eyes darted to the door, your mind torn between throwing it open or reaching for the rifle leaning against the wall.

Curiosity got the better of you. Hands slightly trembling from the cold—or maybe something else—you stepped forward and gripped the handle, twisting it slowly. The door creaked open, and a gust of icy air hit your face, stinging your cheeks as you peeked outside.

“Joel?”

There he was, hunched over, dragging a pine tree through the snow, its branches catching on every uneven patch of ground. His face was flushed from the cold, his breath visible in the crisp morning air as he gave the tree one final heave. Straightening up, he caught sight of you standing in the doorway, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

For a moment, he froze, caught in the act. His expression was as guarded as always, but there was something else—a flicker of hesitation, like he wasn’t sure what to say or how you’d respond.

“You, uh…” He shifted awkwardly, glancing at the tree, then back at you. “You said you wanted a tree,” he muttered, his tone gruff, his shrug feigning indifference, as though dragging a whole pine tree through the snow was just another errand.

Your chest tightened, warmth spreading despite the icy air around you. “Did you cut this yourself?” you asked softly, stepping closer, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Joel nodded once, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the simple act embarrassed him more than it should have.

“And dragged it all the way here?”

Joel nodded again, his hand drifting to the back of his neck, his fingers rubbing at the nape like he could somehow ease the tension there. “Wasn’t far,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, but the faint flush creeping up his cheeks gave him away.

He was lying—it had been far, and he was too old for this shit. Every step back had weighed heavy in his bones, his hands still numb from the cold, his back stiff from hauling the thing all the way here. But none of that mattered. Not when it meant seeing you like this, your eyes alight with joy, your smile so bright it knocked the air from his lungs. He’d do it again in a heartbeat, a hundred times over, if it meant he could hold onto this fleeting, impossible moment just a little longer.

You stared at him, the enormity of his gesture settling over you, wrapping around you like the warmth of a fire on the coldest night. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. The lump in your throat was too thick, your emotions too raw.

Without thinking, you closed the distance between you and threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a fierce hug. Joel stiffened at first, his hands hovering at your sides as though unsure of where to place them. But then, slowly, his arms came around you, his hold tentative but steady, one hand splaying across the middle of your back.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his shoulder, your voice muffled but trembling with sincerity.

Joel didn’t say anything, but the way his grip tightened, just enough to let you know he was there, said more than words ever could. The faint scent of pine and the warmth of him filled your senses, and for that brief moment, the rest of the world seemed to melt away.

As you pulled away and took a proper look at the tree, a delighted shriek escaped you, your hands flying to your cheeks.

“Jesus,” Joel muttered, his hand coming up to cover his ears in mock exasperation. “Warn a guy next time, would ya?”

“Joel, this is the best day ever,” you said, spinning to face him, your grin so wide it almost hurt. “You are officially the opposite of the Grinch.”

He shook his head, a soft huff of amusement escaping him.

“Come on, let me help you,” you said, grabbing at the trunk of the tree, already tugging it toward the door.

“Don’t need to do that,” he said, his tone gruff but without bite.

“I want to,” you shot back, undeterred, already struggling to maneuver the hefty thing into your living room.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

With Joel’s steady hands guiding it, the tree finally found its place in the corner of your living room.

It fit perfectly, its branches reaching just shy of the ceiling. The rich scent of pine filled the air, and for a moment, you could almost forget the world outside as you stood back and admired it.

“Joel, seriously,” you said, turning to him, your voice softer now. “This is really kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, brushing off your gratitude like it was nothing, though he avoided your eyes.

But this wasn’t nothing—not to you. There was something about the moment, about Joel standing there in your home with snow still clinging to his boots, that made you feel bold. Something about the quiet intimacy of it all, the way it felt almost domestic in its simplicity. Joel Miller had gone out of his way—for you. The thought made your chest tighten, a warmth spreading through you that melted away the chill of the morning. It made your heart ache in the best way, leaving you feeling special in a way you hadn’t in a long, long time.

“How about…” you began, your heart thudding as his eyes flicked back to yours, sharp and attentive. “Did you maybe wanna come over tonight? I mean… to help me decorate the tree. And I, uh…” You faltered, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze. “I have alcohol,” you finished, wincing at how lame it sounded out loud.

Joel’s eyebrow arched, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Alcohol? That’s your bribe? Like I’m some kinda drunk?”

“What? No!” you sputtered, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“I’m jokin’,” he interrupted, his voice tinged with dry amusement, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and nerves tangling in your chest as his teasing sunk in.

Joel hesitated, his expression shifting subtly as his eyes lingered on yours. There was something unspoken in his gaze—an uncertainty, but also a quiet warmth that made your breath catch. It felt like he was weighing something, some internal debate playing out just behind his carefully guarded exterior.

“Alright,” he said at last, his voice softer now. “Yeah, okay.” He gave a small nod, almost as if convincing himself this was fine, this was normal.

“Okay,” you echoed, trying and failing to contain the giddy smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight,” Joel repeated, his voice steady but quieter, as though the word carried more weight than it should. He nodded once more, turning toward the door. He hesitated briefly, his hand hovering over the handle, as though he wanted to say something else. But instead, he cast you one final glance, his expression unreadable, and stepped outside, leaving behind the faint warmth of his presence—and the buzz of anticipation that seemed to cling to the room like static.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

Joel stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the reflection he usually avoided like the plague. The mirror never lied, and what stared back at him was a man weathered by regrets and loss, his inner turmoil etched into the lines on his face, the streaks of grey in his hair and beard. His hands gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white, as he shook his head slowly. He didn’t recognize the man looking back at him—at least, not tonight.

He felt stupid.

Like a goddamn teenager getting ready for a date, his heart pounding for no good reason. When you had asked him to come over, the words had caught him off guard, knocking the breath right out of him. His initial instinct had been to say no, to mutter some excuse about being busy. But the look in your eyes, the way you’d smiled at him—hopeful, hesitant—had thrown him off balance. Against all his better judgment, he’d nodded.

And now here he was. His hair, damp and slicked back from the shower, was a little more effort than he’d ever normally bother with.

He’d even trimmed his beard and mustache.

He wore a button-down shirt, one of the few he owned that didn’t look like it had been through a war, and a pair of jeans that weren’t too worn at the knees. His coat was thrown over the back of a chair, waiting for him to stop pacing and just go.

What the hell was he doing? He had lugged a fucking tree to your house. Joel Miller didn’t do things like that. Not for anyone. He didn’t put himself out there, didn’t let himself get drawn into things that could end up hurting more than they were worth. Yet, here he was, straightening his shirt in a mirror he hated, wondering if you’d notice the effort he was putting in, even though he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

The walk to your house felt longer than it should have, each step heavy with the weight of his thoughts. Joel wasn’t just out of his depth—he was drowning in unfamiliar waters. He could turn back. He could go home, pretend he’d forgotten, avoid whatever this was threatening to turn into. He stopped mid-step, staring down at the snow-dusted ground, the temptation to turn around gnawing at him.

But he didn’t.

Before he knew it, his boots were on your porch, the warm glow of light spilling out from the edges of your window. His hand hovered over the wood of your door, suspended in hesitation. His chest tightened, his breath shallow as a thousand thoughts battled in his head.

What if this was a mistake? What if he couldn’t give you what you deserved? What if…

The sound of your humming floated through the door, soft and genuine, and it stopped his spiraling thoughts dead in their tracks. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself.

Then, with a rough exhale, he knocked.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“Hi,” you said softly as you opened the door, your breath catching for a moment as your eyes took him in.

Joel looked… handsome.

Not that he wasn’t always handsome, but tonight he looked different—more put together than usual, as though he’d taken the time for this.

His hair was slicked back, still damp from the shower, and the button-down shirt he wore fit him just right, the dark fabric emphasizing the broad set of his shoulders. He’d put in effort for this. For you. And that thought sent a soft ache through your chest, your heart beating just a little faster as you struggled to find the right words.

“Hi,” Joel replied, his voice low and gruff, but there was something softer beneath it, something you couldn’t quite place.

“Come in,” you said, stepping aside, your heart thudding in your chest as he crossed the threshold.

Joel stepped forward, standing awkwardly by the door as his hands hovered at his sides, unsure of what to do with them.

“I’ll take your coat,” you offered, your fingers brushing his sleeve lightly as you reached out.

“Oh,” he said quickly, “I can do it.”

The two of you fumbled with the coat, a clumsy, almost comedic dance of politeness. When you finally managed to get it on the rack, you turned back to him, your cheeks flushed, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips.

Joel thought it was sweet, the way your nervousness showed in the little things—how you smoothed the hem of your pink jumper or tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Well,” you began, breaking the silence as you turned toward him, your voice light with an effort to ease the tension. “I managed to steal a bunch of leftover ornaments and lights.” You disappeared into a nearby room, your footsteps soft, and returned moments later with a box in your hands. Setting it on the living room floor with a playful grin, you added, “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Cross my heart,” Joel replied, his voice low but warm, mimicking the motion with a faint, crooked smile. The gesture, so uncharacteristically lighthearted, made your grin widen as you knelt by the box, feeling the weight of the moment ease into something softer, something warmer.

“Okay,” you said, gesturing to the box with a quick motion. “I’ll get you something to drink. Sorry, I’m a terrible host—I don’t have people over much.”

For some reason, that confession made Joel’s chest tighten—not with discomfort, but with a quiet sense of satisfaction. The thought that not everyone had the privilege of this—the quiet intimacy of being in your space—filled him with something he couldn’t quite name. That he was one of the few people you’d allowed into this small, private corner of your world… it mattered more than it should.

“It’s fine,” Joel said, his voice coming quicker than he intended, smoothing over the moment. He softened his tone, just enough to catch your attention and pull your gaze back to him.

You glanced at him, a shy smile brushing across your lips before you turned and retreated into the kitchen. The faint sound of glasses clinking as you moved about filled the silence, but Joel barely noticed, too busy taking in the room around him.

He eased onto your couch, leaning back tentatively as though he didn’t quite belong there. His eyes swept over the space—cozy, warm, undeniably yours. Books were stacked haphazardly on a nearby table, their spines a mix of worn and new. A blanket hung over the armrest, its edges slightly frayed, like it had been used countless times for comfort. The faint scent of something sweet lingered in the air, soft and welcoming, and it made him smile without realizing it. This wasn’t just a house—it was a home, and he couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since he’d felt something like this.

When you returned, holding a glass in your hands, Joel’s gaze lifted to meet yours. He didn’t look away immediately, his eyes lingering just a moment too long, enough to send a spark of warmth through your chest.

“Thanks,” he murmured, reaching for the drink. His fingers brushed yours briefly, the warmth of his touch startling against your cool skin. The small, fleeting contact sent a shiver down your spine, leaving you momentarily breathless as he settled back into his seat.

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear again. “Alright,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “Let’s make this tree look like Christmas exploded on it.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes softening. “Lead the way.”

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You and Joel worked side by side, the soft glow of the living room lamp wrapping the space in a warm, golden light. The open box of ornaments lay at your feet, spilling out a chaotic mix of shiny baubles, mismatched trinkets, and tangled strings of lights that looked like they’d seen better days.

“This one,” Joel said, holding up an ornament so hideous it made you visibly wince—a lopsided gingerbread man with one eye missing, its glitter barely clinging to the uneven surface.

You raised an eyebrow, a laugh slipping past your lips before you could stop it. “I thought the plan was to make this tree look nice.”

“Hey,” Joel shot back, mock defensive, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “It’ll add character.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress your grin. You could get used to this, you thought—the easy banter, the warmth of his presence, the quiet moments where the world didn’t feel so heavy.

“Sure it will,” you teased, reaching into the box for something a little less tragic. You pulled out a glittery star, holding it up with a flourish. “Here, let’s balance out your ‘character’ with something actually pretty.”

Joel chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent a soft hum of contentment through you. He reached up to place the gingerbread man on one of the higher branches, his fingers brushing against the pine needles with a carefulness that caught you off guard.

Your gaze lingered for a moment, drawn to the way his hands moved—strong and calloused, bearing the evidence of a life lived hard, yet surprisingly gentle in this moment. You shook yourself out of it, your cheeks warming as you focused back on the tree. But the thought lingered. This could be something.

As you leaned forward to hang the star, your shoulder bumped into his, and the contact sent a jolt through both of you.

“Sorry,” you murmured quickly, your cheeks flushing as you stepped back.

“S’all right,” Joel said, his voice quieter now. His gaze flicked toward you, and for a split second, the room seemed smaller, the space between you charged with something neither of you dared name.

You both turned your attention back to the tree, the moment lingering in the air like a held breath.

“Here,” Joel said after a beat, pulling a strand of lights from the box. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The touch was fleeting, but it left a warmth that lingered far longer than it should have.

“Thanks,” you said softly, your heart thudding as you began winding the lights around the tree.

Joel stepped closer, his hands reaching out to help guide the string. His proximity made your pulse quicken, and you swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task instead of the way his arm brushed against yours.

“Looks good,” Joel said after a moment, his voice low and steady. His eyes lingered on the tree, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that his attention had shifted, subtly but unmistakably, to you.

You turned toward him, holding up a candy cane with a playful smile. “Last one,” you said, the warmth in your tone betraying the ease you felt in his presence. “Where should it go?”

Joel leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing the tree as he pointed to a branch near the top. “There.”

You tilted your head, eyeing the spot with a small laugh. “I can’t reach that high.”

Joel stepped closer, his warmth radiating against your back as his hand rested lightly on your lower back, guiding you forward. “Here,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I’ll lift ya.”

Before you could respond, his hands found your waist, strong and sure, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. The sudden contact made your breath catch, your pulse quickening as your hands instinctively reached for balance. For a brief moment, you froze, the nearness of him stealing your focus.

“You good?” Joel asked, his voice steady, but quieter, almost careful.

“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper. You hooked the candy cane onto the branch, the small act grounding you as you steadied yourself. “Okay, got it.”

Joel lowered you gently, his hands lingering at your waist for just a second too long before he pulled away, the absence of his touch leaving your skin tingling.

You turned to face him, your cheeks warm, your heart pounding in a way that felt almost too loud in the quiet room. “Thanks,” you said softly, your voice carrying a weight of something unspoken as your eyes met his.

Joel nodded, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Tree looks good,” he said gruffly, though there was a softness in his tone that made your chest ache.

You smiled, the warmth between you undeniable as the glow of the tree bathed the room in soft light. “It does,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You watched as Joel knelt by your fireplace, his broad shoulders hunched as he fiddled with the knobs and levers, his movements deliberate and confident, like he’d done this a hundred times before. You’d asked him to take a look, to figure out why it wouldn’t turn on, and now here he was, focused in that quiet, determined way of his.

The warmth of the room still hadn’t chased away the chill clinging to the corners, and you pulled your sweater tighter around you as you waited. After a few moments, the fire roared to life, the sound sharp and satisfying, the flames crackling as they cast a soft, golden glow over the room.

The light danced across the walls, illuminating the tree in the corner, its twinkling lights and ornaments transforming your living room into something cozy, almost magical. A wave of contentment settled over you, warm and steady, wrapping itself around you like a blanket.

Joel stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and turned to you, his brow drawn in that familiar way of his. “How the hell,” he began, his voice tinged with disbelief, “have you been gettin’ through winter without a damn fireplace?” His hands found his hips, his posture a mix of frustration and incredulity.

You shrugged, leaning casually against the arm of the couch, masking the truth of how many nights you’d spent shivering under blankets too thin for the bitter cold. “I’m tougher than I look, Miller,” you quipped, a teasing grin tugging at your lips, trying to keep the moment light.

Joel shook his head, his brow furrowing deeply, his expression a mix of exasperation and something heavier—something closer to concern. “Gonna get yourself pneumonia,” he muttered, his voice gruff but laced with that quiet insistence that always made your defenses wobble.

“Pfft,” you scoffed, waving him off like it was nothing. “I’ve made it this far.”

But Joel wasn’t letting it slide. He turned to you, fixing you with a look so serious it made your smile falter. “You gotta take care of yourself,” he said, his tone firm, weighted. The way his voice dipped—low, resolute—settled something deep in your chest. “I’m bein’ serious.”

Your grin faded as his words lingered, the weight of them sinking in. He wasn’t joking, wasn’t teasing. Joel’s dark eyes stayed locked on yours, steady and unrelenting, and there was something there that stole the breath from your lungs. The way he was looking at you—like your well-being mattered more than anything else—sent a wave of warmth washing over you, one that had nothing to do with the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

You forced a small, playful smile, though your voice was softer now, tinged with something you couldn’t quite name. “Almost sounds like you care about me,” you teased lightly, trying to break the tension, though your heart pounded as the words left your lips.

Joel’s jaw tightened for a moment, his gaze flickering as if debating whether to speak. But then he did, his voice low and steady, slipping out almost like he couldn’t help himself. “’Course I care,” he said, his tone laced with a rawness that caught you off guard. He shifted slightly, his fingers brushing over the back of the chair as though grounding himself. “You think I wouldn’t?”

The sincerity in his voice wrapped around you, leaving you stunned, your heart stuttering as the space between you seemed to shrink. The way he said it—like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it was something you should’ve known all along—sent a twist of yearning through you so sharp it was almost painful. Joel’s gaze didn’t waver, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moved, the moment hanging heavy between you, filled with all the things neither of you had said yet.

You froze, the teasing grin slipping from your face as his words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. Joel didn’t say things like that. Not Joel. Not ever.

And yet here he was, standing in your living room, saying the kind of thing that cracked open every wall you thought he’d built around himself. It wasn’t the first time, either—the third, maybe fourth time he’d let something slip that showed you, without question, that he cared. But now, as if realizing what he’d done, he looked like he was already regretting it.

He sighed, the sound deep and weary, dragging a hand through his hair as his gaze darted away from yours, fixing on the floor like it might swallow him whole. “I should probably get goin’,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, tinged with that same uncertainty you’d seen in him before. “I’ll, uh… come back tomorrow. Fix that cabinet hinge in the kitchen.” He gestured vaguely toward the next room, his words rushed and uneven, like he needed to fill the silence with something, anything, to get himself out the door.

You blinked, caught off guard—not by the mention of the cabinet hinge, which you hadn’t even realized was broken, but by the way Joel suddenly seemed so unsure of himself. The way he shifted on his feet, hesitating as though he didn’t know if he should stay or go. The Joel you knew didn’t hesitate. He didn’t backpedal or falter. And yet here he was, breaking his own rules, leaving you too stunned to speak.

You opened your mouth, trying to say something to pull him back, but the words wouldn’t come. The air between you felt heavy, electric, charged with everything unspoken, until Joel finally moved toward the door. His boots thudded against the floorboards, each step carrying him closer to leaving, but when he reached the door, he stopped.

For a moment, he stood there, his hand resting on the handle, the muscles in his shoulders tight like he was bracing himself.

You thought—hoped—he might turn around, might say something to break the tension strung so tightly between you. But instead, he gave a small shake of his head, so faint you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely.

“Goodnight,” he said gruffly, his voice rough at the edges, and before you could respond, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold night air.

You stayed where you were, rooted in place as the door clicked shut behind him, the warmth of the fire doing nothing to ease the ache that had settled in your chest. His words replayed in your mind, over and over again. ’Course I care.

The weight of them pressed against you, soft but insistent, leaving you wondering if he knew how much those words had meant—or if he’d ever let himself admit it.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

Joel kept his promise. The next evening, just past seven, he appeared at your door, his work tools slung across his arm. Outside, the wind howled through the streets of Jackson, carrying snow that fell thick and fast, blanketing the world in an unforgiving stillness. Most of the town had hunkered down for the night, fires crackling in hearths and windows locked tight against the bitter cold.

When you opened the door, Joel stood there, looking more worn than usual. His coat hung heavy on his shoulders, dusted with snow, and his breath curled in the freezing air. “Evenin’,” he muttered, his voice low, each word edged with exhaustion. As he stepped inside, you noticed the soft groan he let slip, the deliberate slowness of his movements. He’d had patrol—he must’ve. No one else would’ve braved this storm, not at this hour, unless they had no choice. Or unless they’d made a promise.

Joel didn’t linger in the doorway. He brushed off the cold, heading straight to the kitchen like a man on a mission. Setting his tools down on the counter, he rolled up his sleeves, the quiet determination in his posture unmistakable. Without a word, he knelt to inspect the broken cabinet hinge, his hands already moving with practiced precision.

The room fell silent, save for the faint clink of tools and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. You watched him from across the kitchen, the words from the day before still circling in your mind, soft but persistent. ’Course I care.

Your voice broke the quiet, hesitant. “Where’d you learn to do all this?”

Joel didn’t glance up, his focus fixed on the hinge as his hands worked it into place with steady ease. “Construction,” he said gruffly, as though the word was too simple to explain the breadth of what it meant. His tone carried a quiet weight, the kind of admission he didn’t make often. “Did it for years… before.”

“Oh,” you murmured softly, the revelation settling over you. It caught you off guard—Joel had been a constant in your life for months now, his presence as steady as the rhythm of patrols and shared silences. You’d spent hours riding beside him, trading small talk and the occasional story, but somehow, he’d kept this piece of himself hidden. Joel Miller, who seemed to know almost everything about you, was still such a mystery.

“All done,” he said, straightening and brushing his hands off with the kind of no-nonsense efficiency that made you bite back a sigh. Ten minutes—that was all it had taken him, and now he’d be gone again, leaving behind a warmth you weren’t ready to let go of.

“If you, uh… need anything else fixed, just let me know,” he added, his tone gruff but carrying a note of softness that lingered in the air. He reached for his coat, his movements purposeful as he headed for the door.

You followed him, your gaze flicking to the storm raging outside as you opened the door. The wind roared like a living thing, flinging snow in thick, relentless waves that obscured everything beyond a few feet. Joel muttered a low, “Christ,” under his breath, his expression tightening as he took it in.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you pushed the door shut again, sealing off the bitter chill.

Joel raised an eyebrow, giving a shrug as he reached for his coat again. “Headin’ home. My place ain’t far.”

You crossed your arms, fixing him with a pointed look. “And you say I’m the one who doesn’t care about myself,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended but underpinned with concern. “You’re not going out in that.”

Joel huffed, his brow furrowing, his posture shifting like he was gearing up for an argument. But before he could get a word out, you stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest. It wasn’t forceful—just firm enough to stop him in his tracks, your fingers lingering against the warmth of his shirt.

“You’re staying here,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Besides, you’re the only one who knows how to start my fire, remember?”

Joel exhaled sharply, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a grumble as his shoulders slumped in reluctant surrender. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it back over the chair. “You’re a damn pain, you know that?” he muttered, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, your grin widening, satisfaction flickering in your chest. “Go on, Miller. Make yourself at home.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch, but he didn’t fight you. Instead, he moved to the fireplace, crouching down with the same practiced focus as before. The sound of crackling flames soon followed, and the heat began to spread through the room, softening the chill that had lingered.

Joel straightened, his hands brushing against his jeans as he turned toward the couch. With a gruffness that seemed more for show than anything else, he eased into the worn cushions, his posture finally relaxing as he leaned back. For a moment, he just sat there, his gaze flicking to the fire, then to the tree, then—unmistakably—to you.

It was going to be a long night, the kind that stretched on slowly, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of shared warmth and unspoken words. But for the first time, neither of you seemed to mind.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The wind howled outside, rattling the windows as if testing the strength of the glass. The storm showed no sign of relenting, snow piling up in relentless waves. An hour had passed in the warm quiet between you and Joel, the unspoken question hanging in the air—was he staying the night?

“I’m hungry,” you sighed dramatically, sprawling on the couch with a lazy stretch. The fire crackled beside you, its glow soft against the walls, while you stole a glance at Joel, who sat across the room, his expression unreadable.

Joel let out a low groan as he pushed himself to his feet, his joints protesting the movement. He wandered toward the kitchen, his boots heavy against the floor, and pulled open one of your cabinets. “You got any food?”

You shrugged lazily, your head tilted against the couch cushions as you watched him rummage through the shelves. “Not really. I don’t cook much. Usually hit the dining hall. Or, you know… skip meals.”

Joel froze mid-motion, his back straightening as he turned to look at you. His brow furrowed, and the disapproval in his expression was unmistakable. “What?” he said, his voice low, carrying that familiar gruffness that managed to be both chastising and concerned.

You winced inwardly, realizing too late that you’d just handed him another reason to scold you. “It’s not that big a deal,” you added quickly, sitting up as if that might soften the blow.

Joel’s head shook slowly, his gaze hard as he muttered something under his breath. “Unbelievable,” he finally said, the word half to himself as he stepped toward the cabinets with more purpose. Rolling up his sleeves with a deliberate tug, he began scanning the shelves, his movements efficient and no-nonsense.

“What are you doing?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him, curiosity piqued.

“Making dinner,” he replied curtly, grabbing a pan with practiced ease. His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a quiet care to the way he moved, pulling out utensils and scanning the sparse contents of your cabinets like he’d done this a thousand times before.

“You can cook?” you asked, your voice laced with amusement and a hint of disbelief.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, his expression unimpressed. “I’m 56 years old. You’d hope I know how to cook by now.”

A snort escaped you, and a teasing grin spread across your lips. “Feel free to move in, then. Handyman, chef… do you do laundry, too?”

Joel raised an eyebrow, stirring something on the stove with deliberate motions. “Hilarious,” he deadpanned, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

The thought, though—of living here with you, of being this small, steady presence in your life—settled deep in his chest, an ache he hadn’t felt in years. It was a longing he didn’t dare give a name.

You chuckled, the sound soft and unguarded, before leaning back into the couch. The warmth of the fire seeped into your skin, lulling you into a comfortable haze. Your eyes fluttered closed, the gentle clinking of pans and the scrape of utensils filling the space like a quiet, unexpected lullaby.

For a man who rarely spoke more than a few words at a time, Joel Miller had a way of taking care of you—whether you’d asked for it or not.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“Wake up,” a gruff voice broke through your haze, the words sharp but not unkind. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, the warmth of the fire and the soft cushions lulling you back toward sleep.

“Wake. Up,” Joel repeated, and this time you felt a hand on your shoulder—firm but surprisingly gentle, his touch softer than his tone.

“What?” you mumbled, your voice muffled as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at him through the fog of sleep.

“Dinner,” he said simply, stepping back toward the kitchen and pulling out a chair at the small dining table. He sat down, his movements steady and deliberate, waiting.

You yawned, stretching as you pushed yourself off the couch, your limbs heavy from the comfort you’d been wrapped in. Padding over to the table, you blinked the sleep from your eyes—and stopped.

Your gaze fell on the spread in front of you, simple yet thoughtful. Somehow, Joel had managed to turn the random leftovers from your cabinets into something that actually resembled a meal. The sight of it made your chest warm.

“Aww, Joel,” you said, a soft laugh escaping as you slid into the chair beside him. You looked at the plates, your heart swelling at the small details—the carefully sliced bread, the steaming stew, the way he’d even set the table. “You made all this?”

Joel gave a nonchalant shrug, his eyes flicking to you briefly before focusing on his own plate. “Didn’t take much. Just used what you had.”

You took a bite of the stew, your eyes fluttering closed as the warmth and rich flavors settled in. “Alright?” Joel asked, his voice gruff but tinged with a flicker of curiosity as he watched you.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze with a smile. “Better than alright,” you replied, taking another bite, savoring every spoonful like it was the best thing you’d eaten in weeks.

After dinner, you stood and began gathering the dishes, waving him off when he moved to help. “I got it,” you insisted, practically pushing him toward the couch. Joel grumbled under his breath but relented, settling down near the fireplace.

The fire cast golden light over his features, softening the hard lines of his face as he leaned back, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. The familiar sound of running water and the clink of dishes filled the room, and Joel found himself glancing over his shoulder.

You stood at the sink, your back to him, humming softly under your breath as you worked. Your hair fell loose over your shoulders, catching the warm glow of the firelight, and Joel couldn’t help but let his gaze linger, something soft and unspoken stirring in his chest.

When you were finished, you dried your hands and crossed the room, handing him a glass of whiskey before settling at the opposite end of the couch. Joel took the glass with a nod, the firelight catching in the amber liquid as he swirled it absentmindedly.

“The fire’s nice,” you murmured, your voice quiet and content as you leaned back into the cushions.

Joel nodded, his eyes shifting from the flames to you. “Told you it’d make a difference,” he said, his tone gruff but carrying the faintest edge of warmth.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the room filled only with the crackling of the fire and the faint whistle of the wind outside. The tension that always seemed to linger between you felt softer now, more like a quiet understanding. You sipped your whiskey, the heat spreading through you, as Joel’s presence, steady and grounding, filled the space beside you.

Joel broke the silence to your surprise, his voice low and gruff, cutting through the comfortable hum of the fire. “What were you hummin’?” He gestured lazily toward the kitchen, where you’d been earlier, his words measured but his gaze intent.

You froze for a moment, feeling a warmth creep into your cheeks. “Oh… you heard that?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with a shy laugh. “It’s just an old country song my dad used to sing when I was little.”

He nodded, his whiskey glass balanced carefully in his hand, his fingers tapping against the rim. “Sounded nice,” he said simply, taking a slow sip. His tone was even, unreadable, but the weight of his words hung in the air like they carried more than he’d intended.

You hesitated, then smiled, your brows raising in playful disbelief. “Was that a compliment, Miller? Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Joel scoffed lightly, his gaze flickering to the fire before returning to you. “What? I compliment you all the time.”

“In what universe?” you shot back, the amusement clear in your voice. Your eyes sparkled as you leaned forward slightly, bracing your elbows on your knees, waiting for his rebuttal.

Joel shifted in his seat, leaning forward as if considering his next words carefully. His expression was thoughtful, though his lips twitched in a way that suggested he was humoring you. “Said you weren’t a bad shot,” he offered finally, his tone casual, like that was enough to make his case.

You rolled your eyes, the warmth of the fire softening the moment. “Not sure if that counts as a compliment, Joel.”

He tilted his head slightly, his jaw tightening just a fraction as he regarded you. The firelight danced over his features, carving out the lines of his face, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed like he might let it drop. But then his gaze lingered, stayed, the quiet stretch of silence between you enough to make your heart skip.

“You’ve got…” Joel began, his fingers now drumming lightly against the glass in his hand. His voice was softer, hesitant, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to finish the sentence. “Nice eyes,” he muttered finally, the words falling out clumsily, unpolished and raw.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding against your ribs. The sheer simplicity of the statement, coming from him of all people, felt like the most vulnerable thing he could’ve said. Joel Miller, with his gruff exterior and impenetrable walls, had just admitted something so small yet so intimate.

He quickly took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes darting away as though trying to escape the moment. You couldn’t help it—you laughed softly, the sound tinged with disbelief and warmth. A blush crept up your neck as you shook your head, your smile soft.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” you teased lightly, though your chest felt impossibly tight.

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Forget it,” he muttered, but there was something in the way his gaze flickered back to you that made your breath catch.

You turned your attention to the fire, needing a moment to steady yourself. “You know,” you began, your voice quieter now, “you don’t have to keep fixing all my stuff.”

Joel leaned back slightly, his posture loosening as he studied you. “Someone’s gotta do it,” he said simply, his voice carrying a gruff sincerity that sent a shiver through you.

“I can take care of myself,” you replied softly, glancing back at him, your eyes searching his face for something you couldn’t quite name.

Joel raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Let’s see,” he said dryly, ticking off on his fingers. “Doesn’t cook, didn’t know how to start her fireplace, believes in werewolves…”

A laugh burst out of you, breaking some of the tension, though it didn’t fully ease the weight in the room. “Seriously, Joel,” you said, shaking your head. “You don’t have to.”

His expression sobered, his gaze locking on yours. For a moment, you thought he might deflect, might brush it off with another quip, but instead, just looked at you.

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice low, so sure.

The words hit you harder than you expected, settling somewhere deep in your chest. He didn’t have to, but he chose to. Over and over, he chose to show up for you in ways that spoke louder than anything he could ever say. It was an unspoken truth that hung between you, heavy and charged.

Your heart pounded as you stared back at him, the air thick with something unsaid. “Joel…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words caught in your throat.

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then leaned back with a sigh, his fingers wrapping tightly around his glass. “Drink your whiskey,” he muttered, his tone gruff but not unkind, his walls creeping back up just enough to keep him safe.

You smiled faintly, shaking your head as you took a sip. The fire crackled, the warmth of the room wrapping around you both, but the weight of everything unsaid lingered, weaving an invisible thread between you.

Neither of you dared to pull at it just yet, but it was there, undeniable, and it felt like enough for now.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

Tag list xxx

@bbyanarchist @kanyewestest @locked-ness @bambisweethearts @pedritospunk @ickearmn @joeldjarin @disco-barbiexx @sherrye22 @vxrona @ashhlsstuff @dendulinka6 @ashhlsstuff @r4vens-cl4ws @divineangel222 @jasminedragoon @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @handsintheeaire

418 notes · View notes